Mære
by Chavva
Summary: Camelot is plagued by a strange sickness causing people to perish in their sleep. When even the king is affected, the Dragon's council sends our favourite heroes on a quest to kill a mythical being, leaving them to fight on two fronts. Arwen, T for safety
1. Sleep tight

_Hello everybody and welcome to my new- and first- Merlin FanFic. You might be wondering what to expect from this story. Well, I hope a well-balanced plot, with a foundation in adventure, some dashes of humour and a couple of side-trips into angst. Story development might be somewhat slow, but I hope it's worth the read. Pairings will be clearly Arthur/Gwen and slightly Merlin/OC. Don't like don't read, but her eyes don't change colour. Give it a try, honestly. I'll be trying my hardest to create a multi-dimensional character and she won't be introduced till at least two more chapters. Besides, canon doesn't really offer any non-evil, non-dead love-interests for Merlin, poor guy._

_Before I finish my rambling and move on to the story, here a short summary of the plot:_

It's been two months since Morgana and Morgause attacked Camelot with an immortal army. While the town is still ailing from the damages and losses, things are finally beginning to get back to normal. However, a strange illness begins to spread, causing people to fall asleep and die of mysteriously appearing injuries in their sleep. When the plague spreads to the castle, the situation seems hopeless. Merlin decides to seek the Great Dragons council, who sends our favourite heroes on a quest to find and kill a mythical being. However, they have to fight on two fronts and nothing is as it seems. Will Arthur and Merlin succeed in saving Camelot and who is really behind the illness?

_Third Person Narration all the way, literary style. R&R._

Chapter 1: Sleep tight...

Stumbling over rocks and branches, Merlin tried to keep his balance while running. Just ahead of him Arthur was crashing through the woodwork. Behind them he heard the voices of the men hunting them.

He was sick of it. How came all of Arthur's hunting trips inevitably ended with them having to outrun bandits, assassins, creatures or other general unpleasantries? Once, just once, he wanted a hunting trip to end with them being the hunters and not the prey.

He tripped over a half-rotten branch and tumbled to the ground. Even though a big bush broke his fall, Merlin just might have preferred it hadn't. He felt thorns cutting his skin. Arthur, who at first hadn't noticed his servant's fall made a sharp turn and grabbed Merlin's arm. "What the hell do you think you're doing. Come on!" He ripped him to his feat and, still holding on to his arm, dragged him along.

The voices and crashing steps drew nearer.

Merlin felt sharp waves of pain shooting through his left foot. He must have twisted it when he fell. He clenched his teeth.

"Merlin! Don't drag your feet! Do you want to die?" Arthur shouted. Under normal circumstances, Arthur would have probably faced their assailants head on. This time however, they were out-numbered by fifteen people. Fighting all of them at once was a feat not even Arthur could accomplish and even Merlin doubted he could take them without revealing his magic to Arthur. Which really wasn't an option.

Merlin tried to pick up his pace, huffing heavily. The bag on his back was weighting him down and he felt like his lungs were about to explode. He wasn't running but rather falling, just managing to put a foot in front of the other before hitting the ground.

Suddenly he felt a sharp tug. He couldn't catch the movement in time. His feet slipped from under him and once again, he went down. Arthur, who hadn't let go of his arm the whole time was pulled down with him. He voiced his extreme dissatisfaction with several very rude curses directed at Merlin, who was scrambling to get back on his feet. It didn't work. Something was pulling him to the ground. He threw his head around so hard, he felt his spine crack. The backpack had been caught in a low tree-branch. Merlin reached behind and tried to free himself with trembling hands. But no matter how hard he tried, his hands kept slipping.

Arthur, who now was back on his feet, grabbed his shoulders and slipped off the straps tying the backpack to Merlin's back, all his attention focused on the task at hand. Seeing how Merlin continued to try and liberate the bag even after he was free, he slapped his hands away. "Just leave it, you idiot. Get your..." He froze in the middle of his movement, staring at a point right above Merlin's head.

"What?" Merlin asked breathlessly.

"Merlin, shut up." The prince hissed "Don't move". He was rising slowly and the arm holding his sword had shot up and was pointing at something behind Merlin.

Oh, he wasn't going to like this, Merlin could tell just by looking at Arthur's face.

He felt something cold pressing against the back of his neck. Something cold and definitely pointy. "Is that..." he started, but one look from Arthur shut him up. It was.

"Drop your weapon." demanded a voice behind him.

"Like I would do that in this kind of situation. What's to tell me you wont run your sword right through him as soon as I lower mine?" Arthur replied stoically.

"You'll have to take your chances, boy, because if you don't, your companion will definitely die." The same gruff voice answered. Arthur's nostrils flared and his jaw clenched. The cold pressure in Merlin's neck increased and he felt how metal ripped through skin. His eyes widened and he held his breath. He felt like even the slightest movement could be his last.

Arthur was still towering in front of him, eyes narrowed to slits. When he saw the movement of the sword in Merlin's neck, his entire body instantly tensed up, ready to strike immediately. But Merlin knew that the distance was to great. No matter how fast Arthur attacked, his head would be rolling over the ground before he could even come close to land a blow. The prince seemed to realise this as well. Still glaring at the assailant he slowly dropped his arm. The sword clattered to the ground.

"It's down. Now let him...No!" Arthur's face distorted with mad anger and panic. It was funny, how everything seemed to slow down around Merlin. Arthur, who was leaping forward. The small bunny roused from the woodwork by the princes scream. The rocking branches in the wind. The dead brown autumn leaves gliding to the ground. Everything just suddenly went slow-motion. The sounds of birds an insects intensified to a deafening roar.

Everything was floating around Merlin like viscous syrup- with a dash of thunder.

And then came the pain. Sharp, hot, terrifying pain between his shoulder-blades. Ravaging through his body, all the way to his head. Merlin opened his mouth, frantically trying to draw a breath. Breathing had always seemed like a good idea, what with it being essential to staying alive. Turns out, it's not so much when your lungs have been pierced by a blade. The air seemed to slice through his airways even further, choking him and forcing him to cough. He tasted salty liquid in his mouth.

Something behind him dropped with a thump. More crashes, more screams. He didn't care. It didn't matter any more. The world around him was speeding up, swirling colours sinking into nothingness.

A voice was shouting his name. Arthur's voice. An unusual tinge of panic in it. He vaguely felt hands on his body, pressing on his chest where the sword had pierced right through his body. Arthur was talking to him, but Merlin couldn't make out the words. He coughed again, but this time it wouldn't stop. Liquid filled his mouth, he felt like he was drowning in it. All that he could think about was the pain tearing up every fibre of his being. He wanted it to stop. He wanted everything to stop, the noise, the swirling, the shouting...

Merlin jolted up with a gasp. His hands frantically shot to his chest, running over the shirt. No dampness, no holes. Everything was in perfect order. Unharmed. Merlin drew a hard and shaky breath. Just a dream. Thank goodness.

Still out of breath he looked around the dim chamber, somewhat disoriented. Somehow the room seemed to be off. It took Merlin a while to realize that he owed this unusual perspective to the fact that he was lying on the ground. He must have fallen out of bed when he woke up. Which would also offer a wonderful explanation to why his body was aching all over. Merlin groaned. This was the third night in one week he had found himself on the floor. He threw a look out the window. It was still dark outside, only a thin stripe of light grey on the horizon foreshadowed the dawning day. If he got back into bed he could probably salvage another two hours of sleep or so.

His breath was back to being steady and he felt calmer. Merlin decided that some more shut-eye would most definitely do no harm and stood up, ready to crawl back into bed. His left ankle ached when he put weight on it. Just great. He must have twisted it when he fell out of bed. Now that would make tomorrows work just one big pleasure, he thought sarcastically. Hunting trips, he mused just before falling back into a comfortable slumber, never brought any good. Not in reality and most certainly not in his dreams.

When he woke up for the second time in the morning, the bright sunshine tickling his nose, the nights terror was all but gone. He felt a little tired, but still refreshed as he jumped out of bed and threw on his clothes. Thinking about it now, it had been a really ridiculous dream, probably caused by the general anxiety and tense atmosphere in the castle ever since Morgana had been publicly revealed to be in cahoots with Morgouse. Uther, still recovering from the mental damage, had retreated to his chambers for almost two weeks, leaving anything and everything up to Arthur to deal with. Who in turn, had left Merlin with way more work than he could possibly handle on his own. Fortunately his little secret had allowed him to do two or three chores at the same time, even though he had to practice his magic with even more care than ever before. But now, two months after the dreadful attack by the immortal army, things were slowly falling back into place. While still visibly affected by the events, Uther had pulled himself together and once more taken reign over the country. No matter how much Merlin loathed the man for his blind hatred of things he did not comprehend, he could not help himself but admire the strength of spirit it must have taken him to deal with the betrayal of the person most precious to him.

Of course, seeing as all of Uthers fears had been once more confirmed by the corruption of Morgana's once gentle spirit by magic, sorcery was being persecuted more rigorously than ever, barring the Great Purge. For two weeks after Uther had come out of his chambers, the pyres had been burning with a dreadful regularity, wrapping the castle in a thick blanket of smoke at times. Seventeen executions in barely just as many days. Arthur, who had been sent out several times to arrest anyone even remotely suspect of having ties to magic had been in an appalling mood for the better part of the days since the attack and Merlin himself had dreamt more than once of knights knocking at his door late at night, of them coming into his small chamber to drag him to his execution. In comparison with dire reality, last night's dream seemed to pale.

Now, yet another month later, the situation seemed to have simmered down a bit. During the past week only one arrest had been made and after days of questioning the prisoner, a young boy of fourteen, had been released back into the custody of his relieved parents.

One good had come out of it all. Being distracted first by grief, then by rage and now by the heavy workload imposed on him by the urgently needed reconstructions, Uther had largely overlooked the impropriety of Arthur raising peasants to knighthood and his now openly displayed feelings for Gwen. He hadn't escaped some half-hearted reproaches and Gwen had told Merlin in confidence that Uther had threatened her with banishment more than once, but no action had ever followed those threats. There had been more pressing issues at hand and even though he seemed to have regained most of his former resolve, Uther didn't seem to be able to muster up the same amount of vigour to opress his son as he had in the past. Maybe he was afraid of alienating the only other person whose regard he had always been certain of after loosing his daughter. As long as Arthur did not display his affection right under his father's nose, the young couple should be safe for a while. Merlin even reluctantly dared to hope that once everything had blown over, Uther might have gotten so used to the idea, that he would continue to ignore his sons so-called misconduct.

His mind occupied with musings such as this he entered Arthur's chambers. The prince, how could it be any different, was fast asleep in his bed. Merlin drew open the curtains and woke him with an enthusiastic "Rise and shine!". Arthur groaned and threw a cushion in Merlin's general direction, which the latter managed to dodge thanks to vast amount of practice in that area.

"Come on, your royal pratiness" he muttered under his breath. Another object, this time a goblet, came flying in his direction. But the words had achieved the desired effect. Arthur was sitting up in his bed, running his fingers through his hair. He shot an unappreciative glance at Merlin.

"Merlin. Do you never get sick of repeating the same line over and over?" he asked. Merlin grinned. "Now that I think about it, I can always change it to 'Wake up, clotpole' if you want me to." he replied, while picking up some stray clothes from the ground and folding them. Seriously, prince or not, how hard could it be to undress in an orderly fashion?

"I dare you to do that and you'll be mucking out my horses every day for years to come." Arthur threatened.

"I'll be mucking out your horses everyday for years to come regardless." Merlin retorted, placing a plate of cheese and ham on the big oak-table in the middle of the room. The sun shone brightly into the room and Arthur blinked when the reflection from the silver plate hit his eyes. He climbed out of bed and disappeared behind the screen next to his wardrobe. Several moments passed. "Merlin." Merlin proceeded to rearrange some random papers on Arthur's desk. "Merlin!" The voice grew impatient. The servant looked up "What is it?".

"Pass me my clothes, will you, you sorry excuse for a servant!" Arthur demanded grudgingly.

"Right." Merlin opened the wardrobe and grabbed the objects of desire. A nightgown landed in his face. "I need you to wash my clothes and dust my chamber. It looks absolutely appalling." Arthur appeared from behind the screen, still tying up the straps of his tunic. With a quick glance at Merlin he added "As do you. What's with the funny walk? Did you finally realize your calling as a jester?" Merlin rolled his eyes. "I fell." he answered hesitantly. Arthur looked at him expectantly. Merlin groaned. He would never hear the end of this. "Out of bed." he added with an exasperated sigh.

This time Arthur was the one to roll his eyes. "You really are one insufferable dingbat. Sometimes I wonder how you manage to stay alive just walking, if you can't even get out of bed without injury."

Yet, he mustered his servant carefully. He did indeed look somewhat off. His grin was not nearly as goofy as it usually was and he had slight dark circles under his eyes. Arthur pushed his guilty conscience for making the boy working so hard lately to the far back of his mind. None of them had gotten any decent rest lately, why should it be different for Merlin, of all people? Besides, as insolent as he was with complaining at every turn, if he was getting even remotely close to being overworked Arthur was certain Merlin wouldn't hesitate inform him of it in his usual snotty-nosed manner. He was useless enough as it was, really no need to indulge him any further.

On a different matter..."Have you seen Gwen recently?" He asked, hoping to sound as casual as if he was talking about the weather. He failed miserably. He had been so busy sorting through the state's affairs, he hadn't had any time to spare for quality time with her. Rushed conversations about random topics in the hall and fleeing touches were all it had amounted to in the past weeks. He didn't even know what she was doing now, with her main employer, Morgana, gone.

A deep scowl appeared on his face when his thoughts drifted in that direction. His mind understood perfectly well what had happened, but within his heart he could not even remotely grasp her betrayal. Sure, she had been annoying and insufferably overbearing at times, but he had always felt nothing but the deepest brotherly affection for her. Even not knowing that they were indeed related. He could not fathom how her feelings towards him could have been of such deep hatred. In a twisted way, he understood how she had come to hate the king. He had, after all, relentlessly persecuted everyone of her kin, he had kept her true identity from her. But even so, why had she turned to sorcery? In a desperate attempt to understand, he had asked Gaius, the trusted advisor whom he never had known at a loss for an explanation. When the court physician had explained to him that magic wasn't always a choice, that some people were just born with it and that Morgana might have been one of those cases, he had been dumbfounded. He could only imagine the terror she must have felt when she realised what she was, that her very being was punishable by death in Camelot. But he himself had never expressed such harsh opinions, he had even helped her to get that druid boy to safety, risking his standing with his father in the process. How had Morgana come to consider him her enemy? Maybe his father had been right all along. Maybe magic was really a force leading to the inevitable corruption of even the gentlest of souls, something Arthur had never quite as ardently believed as the king. Certainly he had dreaded it as a tool capable of inflicting great pain and suffering, but so was a sword or an arrow. Yet they didn't burn all swords and arrows and they certainly did not assume that anybody carrying them was inherently evil. Recent events though had sent his mind down a different road.

His brooding was interrupted by Merlin's answer. "I saw her a couple of days ago. She's doing fine, considering everything. They employ her in the kitchen now mostly and Gaius asked her to help out as a makeshift nurse. There are many still ailing from injuries received in the attack, so there is much to be done."

"I see." Arthur replied, still trying to sound nonchalantly. Merlin grinned. "Oh, don't worry. I'm sure she hasn't forgotten all about you. Might be that her thoughts are somewhat distracted, but deep within I am certain she thinks of you just as much as you are pining after her."

"I am not pining!" He wasn't. Princes don't pine. They are vaguely interested.

"Sure, whatever helps you sleep at night, Sire." Merlin stated with a mischievous smile. That comment alone warranted an object, preferably a hard one, directed at his head. Arthur grabbed a random piece of dinnerware, ready for the throw, but his servant had already ducked out of the room. At least he knew what was coming to him, even though that didn't stop him from making snotty remarks. "Don't forget my laundry and the dusting or I swear to god, I'll have you in the stocks for a week!" Arthur shouted before the door fell shut. The people needed something to brighten their mood, after all.

Merlin didn't stop grinning until he had reached Gaius' chambers. The embarrassed look on Arthur's face had been just too funny. For a prince who had faced the crowd as a leader for as long as he probably could remember, he was really surprisingly awkward when it came to his personal affairs. Merlin opened the door. "Gaius, I'll have to postpone collecting those herbs for you. Arthur has me doing chores again. He really is a.." he announced while stepping inside. However, the presumably not very nice remark about Arthur's character froze on his lips, when he saw the king and a knight whose name he did not know standing next to the physician, who was bowing over a fourth man spread out on the bed. When he stepped closer, Merlin recognized Sir Leon. The man's face looked unnaturally pale in the flickering light of the candles. His eyes were tightly closed and pearls of sweat covered his forehead. "What happened?" Merlin asked, worried. He had never conversed much with the man but on those rare occasions he had always been very kind to him. He was also, Merlin knew, one of Arthur's most loyal and trusted knights who would lay down his life to protect Camelot without batting an eye. Had there been an attack? He hoped not. Everybody was still recovering from the last one, most knights were in much less than optimal physical condition. Thwarting an attack in this state would be difficult, if not next to impossible. Gaius, who had looked up at his entrance shook his head. "We don't know. He was found like this in his chambers today. It seems to be impossible to wake him." The physician said. "I need you to rush to the herb-store in the lower town and get me these supplies." He added, handing his semi-assistant a list. Merlin glanced over it and swallowed. Some of the ingredients contained very potent components used to treat comatose patients. During some of those very rare discussions of the physician's art, Gaius had warned Merlin to only use them under the most pressing of circumstances. "I'll go right away. However, Arthur needs to..." The king waved his hand dismissively. "I will send somebody to attend to my son. Gaius, what can you tell me?"

Merlin didn't get to hear his mentor's answer, for he was out the door and back in the corridor before he had time to respond. Certainly, this was only a sickness, not caused by an attack. He had not seen any injuries on Sir Leon's body. Yet, he could not suppress an ominous feeling in the pit of his stomach while he rushed down the road leading to the lower town.

When he had purchased all the ingredients on his list and stepped out of the store, he heard a familiar voice call his name. It was Gwen, accompanied by her brother Eylan. Sir Eylan, Merlin added mentally. "Merlin. Are you running an errand for Gaius?" She asked him. He replied in the affirmative. "Sir Leon has fallen ill and Gaius needed me to get some supplies." he added. Gwen raised an eyebrow. "Fallen ill? He seemed fine when he was talking to Eylan yesterday, didn't he?" she asked, turning to her brother. "Yes. He seemed somewhat tired, but that's not all that unusual nowadays. Because so many knight are still recovering, all of the remaining ones have to pick up longer shifts for patrol and watch." Merlin nodded. That was true, all knights had been looking exhausted lately. He saw the same exhaustion on Eylan's face. "How is that going anyway? Are you growing accustomed to your duties?" he asked. After all, Gwen's brother had been raised to knighthood pretty much out of the blue. Even though he had a lot of fighting experience- gained doing the gods knows what- he had never gone through any proper military training. Having to jump into full service unprepared had to take its toll on him. "It's going. Not as good as I wish it to, but it suffices. I always seem to step on some kind of landmine with those nobles." Eylan explained with a pained expression on his face. Merlin grinned. Getting familiar with the customs of the court, he knew from past experience, could be exasperating. At least he had the advantage of just being a lowly servant, Sir Eylan was now expected to fit in with the nobles. That could not be easy. "I'm certain you're doing your best. And I bet most of them would rather have a gifted swordsman covering their backs than a clutz who knows which knife to use with fish. Even though they don't admit it." Gwen smiled at that. She was proud of her brother, who for once did something more productive than getting himself into unnecessary trouble. However, her face turned serious right away. "Merlin, that sickness...he wouldn't have fallen asleep without any explanation and now you're not able to wake him up?" she inquired frowning. Merlin stared at her. "As far as I know that is exactly what happened. But how would you know?" he asked. Her frown grew deeper. "If you have five minutes to spare, come with me." she said. Merlin hesitated. Gaius had sounded like he needed the supplies urgently. However, whatever Gwen wanted to show him must be something pertaining to Sir Leon's sickness, otherwise, how could she know about the symptoms? Eylan took the decision off him. "If you worried about getting the herbs to Gaius, I am on my way to practice right now. I can take them to him." he offered. Grateful, Merlin handed the parcel over and thanked him. Refusing to accept his thanks, Eylan kissed his sister goodbye and proceeded in the direction of the castle.

"So, Gwen, what is it you want to show me?" He asked, while following her into the opposite direction. "Lately the townspeople have been falling ill." She answered. "There is no apparent reason and medical expertise would be in order. However, with everything that is going on, Gaius has not yet found the time to make house-calls and the town's physicians are at a loss. But you will understand when you see it." After a while of walking in silence through narrow streets, Merlin suddenly remembered. "Arthur asked about you" he said, smiling sheepishly. Gwen blushed ever so slightly. "That was very kind of him." She said in her usual modest manner. Merlin's smile grew wider. "He's really down, not being able to see you. I think he's afraid you'll forget all about him when you don't see him on a daily basis." He added teasingly. Gwen blushed some more. "I think he knows very well that won't happen, Merlin."

"Of course he lets it all out on me. Please, Gwen, for my sake, if not for his, can't you just go and see him?" he asked, still grinning. Gwen also flashed a little smile. "I am afraid neither him nor I have the time right now. Besides, I am trying to stay out of Uther's sight as much as possible. Who knows when he'll change his mind about me?" She mused.

"I reckon Uther has more pressing issues at hand right now. Besides, you're the sister of one of his knights. Your standing has risen with that." he decidedly added. "A knight he just barely tolerates because he has no choice, Merlin. I doubt it will be that simple."

Merlin knew she was right and it showed on his face. Still, he didn't want her doubting the only thing that was bringin his friend so much happiness. Right now, there was enough doubt going around to last for centuries.

They had arrived at a house at the outskirts of town. It was more of a small hut, surrounded by a broken down fence and some patches of green. The traces of battles past were reflected in the battered appearance of the scrubby garden, which was all but trampled into the ground. All over the wooden walls were scorch marks. Some of the equally wooden stores were smashed to bits and rags formed the only makeshift protection against the harsh autumn wind. This was where the first wave of attack by Morgause's immortal army had hit. Many of the households in this part of towns had been burned to the ground or plundered relentlessly. It wasn't an amount of damage these simple people could repair easily. Gwen knocked at the door. Inside he heard the rustling of cloth and something clattering to the ground. A short silence followed. "It is me, Guinivere" the handmaid said. The door creaked and the terrified face of a child, maybe ten years of age appeared in the opening. Upon recognizing Gwen, a relieved smile cleared up its face and the door opened some more. The child made an inviting gesture which they followed.

If the outside of the hut had looked bad, the inside looked worse. A table and some broken chairs were standing in one corner of the room, which couldn't be much larger than fourteen square-metres. A small fire was glowing in the open fireplace but it was hardly able to sustain some warmth in the room. In another corner some more, even younger, children were sitting on a haystack. The smallest was still a toddler, lying in the arms of what must have be his older sister. A woman in a worn, brown dress was standing over a pot which seemed hardly large enough to contain enough food to feed all children present. The floor had been recently swiped, with a broom standing next to a heap of pottery-shards. The cupboards, for the better part with doors ripped out of their hinges were all but empty. The dim light of the fireplace only added to the bleak atmosphere in the room. These people had also been robbed by Cenred's mercenaries. Merlin felt hot anger rising up in his chest. He understood, no he even sympathised with Morgana's hatred of Uther. But what had these people ever done for her to allow such misery to happen during her short reign?

"This is Merlin." Gwen explained. "He is the court-physicians assistant and might be able to help." Merlin frowned. Gwen knew just as well as he did that he knew next to nothing about medicine. She was probably counting on him telling Gaius about whatever he was going to witness here.

"He 'an't woke up" The woman said turning to Gwen. "I were makin' 'im some soup, like 'e told me. But he wun't swallow't."

Gwen nodded. "May we see him?" she asked politely. The woman shrugged her shoulders and waved her hand towards a curtain at the far end of the room. Gwen drew it aside, revealing a bed with a man on it. Judging from his age he must have been the woman's husband. He had a haggard appearance, with eyes and cheeks deeply sunk in. His ruffled, muddy-blonde hair was wet from sweat. He was asleep so deep, that if Merlin hadn't heard quiet moans from time to time, he could have sworn he was dead. However, even with those life-signs he could not have been far from death. Gwen drew a chair near the bed and signalled Merlin to follow her example when she sat down. Placing a hand on the man's forehead she turned to the child that had let them in. "Aeron, could you get me a wet cloth please? I need to bring his fever down." The child vanished out the door and returned with the cloth shortly after. "T'is frum t'pigbassin. An't gut nuthin else t'spare." The woman commented. Gwen took the cloth and placed it on the man's forehead. "This is Carwyn. He's a pig farmer. And that," she looked in the direction of the woman "is Ffraid, his wife." Merlin acknowledged the introduction with a polite nod. "Carwyn became ill a week ago. He fell asleep one evening and did not wake up in the morning. We have tried all conventional means to rouse him, but nothing will work. They do not have the money to afford a proper physician, so I was hoping Gaius might come by and check on him sometime." She gently brushed the hair from the man's forehead. "It's been happening all over town. At first, it only affected the outlying parts, so I though it must have been the exhaustion or something about the food. But it is progressing further and further into town. Those afflicted all just fall asleep and don't wake up. Four have died already. Mostly because of starvation..." she proceeded to explain "Which is why I have been trying to force-feed them liquids. But they won't keep it down and most people out here do not have any food to waste."

At that Ffraid shot a sharp glance at Merlin to check his reaction. His clothes were, in comparison, well made and expensive, he looked well fed and rested. "Dun't waste 'er breth onn'im, luv. T'is a thing he cun't undr'stand. Prob'ly thinks us barbarians." But Merlin understood. Why feed a person who would probably die anyway and just spit the food back out, instead of those who were healthy and hungry? He remembered this kind of logic from his hometown Ealdor. Peasants were a practical people who, even though they suffered no less emotions, learned to keep them at bay in favour of the most economic decision. It was a stark contrast to the attitude at the castle, a kind of thinking somebody who had grown up wealthy like Arthur could never begin to understand. Not for lack of trying, to be fair. That's just how it was. These people lived in a different world with different rules. When somebody fell ill it was a tragedy and they would try their very best but there was always a point at which they had to move on, even if the person in question was technically still alive.

He shook his head. "You're doing your best, I can see that." he said directed at the woman. Not to justify himself, but rather to make it clear to her that he did not feel any condescension toward her. All people had pride, even when poverty sometimes overshadowed it. The woman acknowledged his gesture by letting it pass without comment and picking up the now screaming toddler.

He turned back to Gwen. "You said they 'mostly' died of starvation. Were there any other causes?"

The handmaid nodded. "Look for yourself." She drew back the blanket. Merlin drew in a sharp breath. The man's stomach was bandaged with bloody stripes of cloth. "What happened?" he asked. An infection could very well be the cause of a coma like this, even with his limited medical knowledge Merlin knew that. If he had been cut with a rusty tool or something along those lines, it would offer an explanation for his condition. Gwen shook her head. "I know what you're thinking, but it isn't the case. He was unhurt when he fell ill." Merlin frowned. "Then- an accident?" Maybe one of the children? Ffraid turned around. "T'were no accsident. I know how t'take care of me husband. T'just weren't there and then t'were."

"She is right. I was here when it happened. He just suddenly started bleeding." Gwen confirmed the woman's account.

"That's impossible. People don't just start bleeding...not if there's no..."

...magic involved, he was going to say, but he bit his tongue just in time. With Uther lashing out at anything remotely magical right now, one had better be more than completely certain before uttering those words. Gwen sighed distraught. "I know."

Suddenly Carwyn moaned again, louder than before. Merlin's eyes widened in disbelief and he jumped up. His chair cluttered to the ground. A long gash was opening up on the man's arm, as if an invisible knife was cutting him.

"What in the gods' name!"

_Thanks for reading, everybody! I won't be updating this very regularly and not all chapter will be as long as this one, I'm afraid, what with it being the high-point of uni exams. But one must have one or two distractions for the bad-must-study-conscience to kick in. On a side note, finding good British insults is seriously tough work. One has to understand the subtle contexts for them not to sound out of place. If any of you guys happens to be genuinely British and notices me using words inappropriately, please do tell. A chocolate-chip cookie for anybody kind enough to send me a list of nice sounding insults._

_But I had an even tougher time trying to mimic the dialect, considering I only ever heard RP. I'm afraid I jumbled up quite some regional dialects there, sorry bout that._

_Any help with plot-holes, grammar mistakes, misrepresented canon, OOCishness and, if you continue reading and meet my OC, dangerous proximity to dreaded Mary-Sue-ishness will be duly noted, pondered and most of all, much appreciated. _

_Cheers, Chavva_


	2. Even though thy dreams may bite

_Hullo together, second chapter. Originally there was a half-page author's note here. I'm chatty that way. I deleted it. The gist of it: Two versions of this chapter, one dripping with angst, the nasty kind, and one going easy on dark and twisted notions of the human brain. This is version number two for reasons which it took me half a page to explain. Main reason being, version number one was most definitely not rated T. _

_Have fun reading!_

_Oh, I forgot last time: **I don't own Merlin or any of the characters appearing on the show. The rest is all mine though.**_

_**/~/  
**_

Chapter 2: ...Even though thy dreams may bite

Walking up the steep hill to the castle, Merlin still could not quite believe what he had seen. If he hadn't witnessed it with his own eyes, he would never have believed it. They had bandaged Calwyn's injured arm and he had promised to ask Gaius to send some ointment for the wound. Ffraid, who up till then had eyed him rather suspiciously up until then, had thanked him warmly and offered them to stay for dinner. But seeing how little the family had to get by and also thinking that he better tell Gaius about this illness as quickly as possible, they had declined. Merlin made a mental note to also try to send them some food. It wouldn't be much, but it would still be something.

When they had left the house, he had turned to Gwen. "How many are there?"- he had asked, dreading the answer. "I'm not sure. All together right now maybe sixteen. But Merlin," - she paused. "I think there are actually many more affected. Lately a lot of people have been complaining about aches and bruises they could not explain. I think not all of them slip into a coma. Some wake up. And when I first visited Ffraid and asked about it, she told me that Calwyn had been complaining about having trouble sleeping for at least one and a half weeks before his condition became like this."

Merlin frowned. This was serious. It sounded like the illness was a progressive one, and fast at that. He was certain, that if Gwen's suspicions were accurate, there were much more people afflicted than either of the two could imagine. Most people would not share such minor concerns in random conversations. And the worst of it was, he could not think of any explanation for it other than magic. If it was truly sorcery at the root of it all, Camelot had yet to see the worst of all purges. He did not doubt for a second that Uther would rather order on mass-executions hoping to swiftly kill the one responsible by accident than start a careful investigation which could take weeks. No, Merlin thought, for the sake of many innocent souls, Uther could not know about this before he had established beyond a doubt that it was actually magic causing people to fall ill.

First, he would tell Gaius about it. Maybe the experienced physician had heard of similar incidents before. Maybe there was a completely mundane explanation for everything. But Merlin could hardly bring himself to believe it.

Still deep in thought he stumbled through the wide halls of the castle. He had almost reached the stairwell leading to the physician's chambers, when he heard a familiar voice behind him. "Merlin."

He turned around. Arthur was standing in front of him and by the looks he was not pleased. Not pleased at all. "Where have you been?" - he demanded to know. Merlin put on a, what he hoped to be, innocent look. If Arthur learned about these incidents, without a doubt he would tell Uther about it. Surprisingly, Merlin felt not only guilty for deceiving his employer but much more, he felt sorry. He would have liked to discuss his thoughts with him. Much could be said about Arthur, most of it pertaining to his ever so overbearing attitude, but he had a quick mind and a decisive character, making him the ideal person to turn to during a crisis. It was one of those qualities, Merlin was certain, that would make him a great king in the future. However, one second later Merlin's kind thoughts towards the prince turned into indignation, when he continued on "Are you slacking off again? I can't believe I actually had to prepare my weaponry for practice myself. Tell me, do you even realise you're being paid for working, not sleeping?" God forbid, Arthur actually had to do something by himself. No matter what happened, if Merlin wasn't there when his royal pratiness beckoned, he automatically assumed that he was lazying around. As if it was that unfathomable for Merlin to have any responsibilities other than tend to his every whim. Not to mention a life.

Not that he had one, thank you very much. In between his work for Arthur, running errands for Gaius and saving Camelot from some kind of magical disaster every other week or so, there was really not much time left to spare for amusement. And then there was always some vaguely prophesied destiny he had to take care of once in a while. Merlin sighed. "I was running an errand for Gaius in town. Your father was going to send you a replacement for the time-being." - he replied. Arthur's eyes narrowed to slits. "Your my servant, not Gaius apprentice. When I tell you to do something, you do it." Merlin rolled his eyes. "Yes, Sire" he said. Right now was not the right time to start a quarrel. He still couldn't help but add 'What a prat' in his mind. "I heard that." Arthur said scowling. "You heard what?" Merlin asked. "I haven't said anything."

"No, but you thought something." Arthur retorted. Merlin stared at him in disbelief. Seriously? "How could you possibly know what I was thinking?" -he inquired.

"Because, Merlin, you are translucent. You are the most atrocious liar that I have ever met in my life. I really hope for your sake that you never take to cards." Arthur commented in his familiar condescending tone. You'd be surprised, Merlin thought, but he didn't say it out loud. No need to rub Arthur's nose into the fact that he had been successfully keeping a secret from him for four years. It would kind of beat the purpose, really.

"I need you to polish my armour, clean my boots and sharpen my sword. And how is that laundry and the dusting coming along?" Merlin grimaced. He had completely forgotten about that. "I was busy" - he said vaguely. Arthur mustered him from head to toe. "Then get at it. Now." -he commanded and stalked off. Merlin sighed. Telling Gaius about the sickness in town would have to wait. He wouldn't be able to talk to him anyway, if he ended up in the stocks for ignoring Arthur.

/~/

Every muscle in Merlin's body ached when he got to the court physician's chambers that night. Aside from having him do the chores already mentioned, Arthur had forced him to scrub the floors, change his bedding, run various errands around the castle, and how could it ever be any different, muck out the stables. He stumbled over the doorstep and dropped into a chair. "I swear" -he groaned. "One day, when magic is allowed to be practised openly in Camelot, I'll have my revenge."

Gaius raised an eyebrow. "I certainly hope not. According to you that will only come to pass when Arthur is king. Taking revenge on the king comes dangerously close to treason, don't you think?" Merlin snorted. "Don't go robbing me off my dreams with your logic."

He looked at Sir Leon on the bed in the corner. "How is he?" -he asked. Gaius sighed. "No change. I don't understand what happened. According to the other knights, he was perfectly healthy just yesterday." Merlin hesitated. It still could be a coincidence. "Gaius, when I went to town-" At that Gaius interrupted. "Yes, Merlin, what happened when you went to town? Really, you should learn some responsibility." Great. First he got the lazy-speech from Arthur, now he was getting the irresponsible-speech from Gaius. He was just grateful that Morgana was gone, otherwise he would probably be getting the I'm evil-speech later on. Or worse, the I'm evil-action. He had noticed a certain pattern to this routine. Not that her absence prevented her from taking the I'm evil-action anyway, but he hoped that he would be spared the speech.

"Anyway, when I went to town, I met Gwen. She told me about some quite disturbing occurrences." he finished the sentence he had started before. After a look at the serious expression on Merlin's face Gaius sat down across the table and nodded him to continue. Merlin repeated everything that he had learned from Gwen and described everything he had witnessed himself. The longer he was talking, the graver did the look on Gaius' face get.

"And you are absolutely certain that there was no injury on his arm before that?" - he asked. "I'm telling you Gaius, it just appeared...like it was magic." Merlin confirmed. Gaius stood up and went over to the window. Then he returned to the table. Again the window. It was almost like he was pacing. Which was really an odd sight, because Gaius wasn't usually one to pace. Finally, he stopped. "I'll go into town tomorrow and look at the situation myself. Until then, do not tell anybody about this." -he said. "I hardly need to explain to you what would happen if Uther was to find about this and it turned out to be nothing." Merlin gulped. He could already smell the burning flesh. "However, Merlin. If it is indeed as you suspect, we won't have a choice but to report to the king. It won't be possible to do anything about the situation without him knowing."

That, unfortunately, he didn't have to explain to Merlin either. "I suggest we both turn in for the night." Gaius added. "There is nothing we can do now anyway."

/~/

The next day Merlin passed as if he was sitting and walking on needles. Or, as Arthur put it so charmingly, like he had a whole colony of ants in his pants. Of course that idea prompted Arthur to think about nature and by association he thought about hunting which in turn led him to horses. Which, well, guess what that led to. Hint: Stables.

Cursing under his breath Merlin threw the pitchfork into a fresh stack of straw. It wasn't like he hated horses, but there was this particular horse's ass that he really couldn't stand. How often do stables need to be mucked out anyway? He wasn't exactly sure, but he strongly suspected that his current occupation had less to do with necessity than somebody's private amusement. He stepped up to the brown horse standing in the left stall. "How are you boy, huh? Doing fine?" The horse threw its head and a gust of warm breath stroked Merlin's face when the beast put sniffed him. Merlin stroked it's soft nostrils. "You know what? I would consider it a personal favour from you if you threw Arthur a little next time around." The horse stared at him as if wanting to reproach him. "Oh come on, don't look at me like that!" Merlin said, grinning. "I'll give you an incentive. Apples for a week." The horse threw its head again and put its head into Merlin's hand. "So we've got a deal then?" he asked it, smiling sheepishly.

"You got a deal on what exactly, Merlin?" asked a voice behind him. Merlin jumped. There was only one person who called his name with that particular indignant stressing.

"Nothing, Sire. I was just trying to convince him to take better care of his room. I know you've had some bad influence, but I believe he still can be reformed." Merlin teased, referring to the habitually messy state of Arthur's room when he wasn't around to clean it. His princely highness, who had been trained to kill since birth apparently had never quite grasped the concept of "put it down where you got it from". He wondered whether nobody told him that as a child. Maybe his amazing princeliness never stooped to picking up any muddy objects to stick them in his mouth? At the thought of an miniature Arthur eating mud-cake Merlin unwittingly chuckled. Arthur had watched him all the while. Unbeknownst to his servant, all of his thoughts had clearly expressed themselves on his face and Arthur, albeit not knowing the exact shape of those mental images, could guess their rough direction better than he cared to. He furrowed his eyebrows, one hand covering his face, while he waited for Merlin's facial debate to stop. Some seconds passed. Apparently some new disgraceful thought about Arthur had occurred to Merlin, because his face once again changed expression to that of repressed laughter. That, Arthur thought, was enough. He didn't even want to know what devilish image Merlin had conjured to his mind. He was certain that it was something most inappropriate and disrespectful to think of one's prince.

"Merlin, would you _please _stop grinning into empty space! _I_ know that you are not the sharpest pitchfork in this barn," he quickly glanced at the tool in the haystack. "But I don't need you to make it quite _this_ obvious to onlookers."

Merlin rolled his eyes. "Ah, then maybe you would like to employ this fella in your services?" he retorted pointing at the pitchfork and his goofy grin spreading even further.

"I reckon I should. At least it has _some_ practical application, unlike you." Then Arthur remembered why he had been looking for Merlin in the first place. "I need you to pass this to Guinivere." He said as disinterestedly as possible and held out a letter. Merlin couldn't believe he was getting such a delicious opening for poking fun at him. Though, to be honest, the Prince of Camelot had unbelievably many and very spacious openings for mockery. That's what being a spoiled royal toff got you.

"Certainly, Sire, and until then I'll guard it with my life. It would be a shame for the proof of your poetic ability to be lost" he promised. Arthur glared at him, however no matter how hard he tried he could not help but look flustered. Merlin hardly believed his luck. Guessing that the letter contained a love poem had been a shot in the dark.

"Then again, it is probably my poetic ability which will be lost forever." He bit back laughter seeing how Arthur grew even more uncomfortable. Arthur was a horrible poet, as both of them perfectly well knew. After having made some attempts at writing Gwen in that manner, which had resulted in lines that would even have sent dragons running for their life, he had delegated it to Merlin to come up with a list of nice sounding expressions. Basically, Merlin thought remembering a certain chicken incident, he still hasn't learned when things are better done poorly by oneself instead of well by others. It was probably futile to try and explain it to him in the first place. "Don't flatter yourself." Arthur told him, his ears glowing red. "I'm giving you a fair chance." Oh, this was just getting better and better. "At what? Winning Gwen's heart for myself?" he grinned and quickly ducked out of the stable before Arthur found something to throw at him.

Still in the highest of spirits, Merlin rushed through the gates, greeting the guards overly enthusiastically in passing. Sir Hurth, new to the court and not yet familiar with the prince's servant's quirks, raised an eyebrow and his better informed companion just shrugged. "Don't even bother with that kid. You'll damage your head."

/~/

When he arrived in town, the first thing Merlin noticed, was a tense atmosphere. Yesterday the market place had been brimming with life but now, there were only the merchants and some hurried looking woman. There was no noise of bargaining. The merchants named their price, the customers paid and rushed away. Not even the old fisher, who was always sitting in the corner of his booth, reading a worn out bible seemed to find pleasure in his habitual occupation. Merlin shrugged off his growing discomfort and proceeded. Gwen's home, located in her father's old forge, was not far from the market square. He knocked and waited until he heard her inviting him in. He grinned and waved the letter from Arthur before throwing it on the table. "From your admirer." He said. Gwen looked up from a dress she was mending. "More of your poetry, I presume?" she asked, slightly amused. Of course it had not passed her by that after the first really terrible poem, the quality had improved in one big leap. She had forced Merlin to fess up and he had caved in. It wasn't that Merlin was actually that great a poet- it was just that Arthur was really, really bad at it. "I wish Arthur would learn to appreciate the meaning of making an effort instead of trying to keep face." She sighed. "Well, he does pick them himself," Merlin jokingly replied. "I'm certain he chooses very wisely." Gwen laughed.

Then Merlin's expression grew more serious. "Did something happen in town? People are acting odd." he asked. Gwen, who had picked up the letter addressed to her with a smile froze. "Yes. There have been two more deaths over night. Both died of injuries. And ten more people have fallen ill." she said, seemingly calm. But Merlin made out the trembling in her voice. She was every bit as spooked by this as the rest of the townspeople seemed to be. Merlin drew in a sharp breath. "What did Gaius think?" he asked. Maybe the physician had told her something. She looked at him slightly surprised. "He hasn't come by yet. I figured he didn't have the time."

Merlin frowned. When he had woken up Gaius hadn't been in his chambers and he had figured that the physician had decided to have an early start on the day, seeing as the situation was of utmost urgency. So if not to town, where had his mentor gone that morning? Gwen noticed his obvious perturbance. "I'm sure he's fine Merlin." She said, guessing his thoughts. "He probably went to pick some herbs or something along the lines." Merlin nodded, but still he felt a funny feeling in his stomach that wouldn't disappear however much he wanted to convince himself that Gwen was probably right. Absent mindedly he chatted with her for a while, asking about the well-being of mutual acquaintances and in turn sharing some of the newest gossip in the castle. Gwen hadn't been up in one week. Even though she still worked as a seamstress for the court, since she didn't have to attend to Morgana any longer there was no need for her to be at the castle. All orders were sent to her and picked up by messenger. But after a while he found it to be impossible to concentrate on the conversation, and apologizing sincerely, took his leave. When he was almost out the door Gwen, who had finally opened and read the letter from Arthur stopped him. She quickly wrote something down on a piece of paper, folded it carefully and handed it to Merlin. "I think that was your best work yet." She said, smiling cheekily. "Really? Which one was it? The one about your eyes? Or the one about undying love in the time of miss and magic? Or was it the one about the legendary..." laughing she pushed him out the door. "That is only for Arthur and I to know." she said. "But I _wrote_ it!" Merlin protested earnestly. She just shook her head and he gave up sighing.

Before returning to the castle, he stepped by the herb-store to ask whether Gaius had been over that morning but received a negative answer.

When he returned, he immediately checked the physician's chambers. But there was no trace of him. Nothing pointed to him having even been there since Merlin left. Everything seemed to be exactly the same as in the morning, including Sir Leon, who was still lying on the bed. It wasn't like Gaius to leave a patient unsupervised for that long, Merlin knew that. Something was seriously wrong.

He heard a knock at the door and before he could answer, it opened. The king stepped inside, looking around somewhat confused. He noticed Merlin in the middle of the room. "Ah. Boy. Pray, where is Gaius?" he asked. Merlin shook his head. "I don't know." Uther looked very displeased. "Is it something I can help you with, Sire?" Merlin asked politely. A displeased look on Uther's face always had dire consequences for somebody and just in case that somebody would be Merlin this time around, he was going to do his best to make it disappear. Uther looked at him, as if he doubted his mental stability. "I doubt it. He was supposed to bring me the remedy for my old wound, but..." he didn't finish the sentence. Merlin's face brightened up. "If it's just that, he always keeps a batch of your Highnesses remedy here...or here..no, wait a second..." Merlin said as he was going through the various cupboards in the far right corner of the room. Finally he found what he was looking for and handed Uther a small glass container. Uther looked at it suspiciously, then at Merlin. "Are you certain it is the right tincture?" He asked "Because if I loose my hair after taking this, I'll have you in the stocks for a week." Merlin gulped. He thought he had gotten the right one, but..."Anyway. When you see Gaius, tell him I wish to speak to him." Uther commanded as he left the room. Merlin sighed. He never felt comfortable in that man's presence.

His mind wandered back to the problem at hand. So even Uther had not seen Gaius today. Where the hell could the physician have possibly disappeared to?

The only thing that could make Gaius forget everything around him were books, Merlin suddenly remembered. If Gaius had gone to the library and found an interesting book, he might still be there. The old man seemed to never get enough of research.

With his hopes restored, Merlin half walked, half ran to the library. The librarian, Geoffrey, who seemed to b´view Merlin with even more disdain than he viewed any other visitor looked up and frowned. "Pace yourself young man. This is a library" he said disapprovingly. Merlin had always wondered, why Geoffrey was so hostile to visitors. Books were there so people could read them, right? "Have you seen Gaius today?" He asked, a little breathlessly. Geoffrey raised an eyebrow. "Indeed. He came in this morning and asked not to be disturbed." he replied, stressing the latter part of the sentence. Merlin ignored him. "Which section?" The librarian looked like he would love to literally kick Merlin out. The boy had never understood what he had done to incur his wrath, but right now he didn't really care. After a while, Geoffrey sighed like a man giving in to an inevitable fate and told him to look in the mythology section. Merlin thanked him briefly, and raced off, hearing Geoffrey shouting something about his speed again.

To be fair, the library at the Castle of Camelot was huge. It spanned an entire floor by itself. And as one might imagine, a floor of a castle is very big. So maybe it wasn't that surprising, that Merlin got lost. Especially not, since Merlin always got lost in the library. So he was quite relieved when he ran across Sir Hentric somewhere in the history section. The elder knight, Merlin knew, was very studious and came to the library almost every day. He was also a friend of Gaius and had always been very kind to Merlin. When the boy explained his dilemma, the Sir Hentric laughed good-naturedly and offered him to show him to the Mythology Section. Merlin gladly accepted. While leading the way through shelves of dusty books, the knight inquired after Sir Leon and expressed his sorrow at hearing he hadn't gotten better yet. Merlin was just about to answer him that he was certain Gaius would figure something out, when Sir Hentric stopped in his tracks, causing Merlin to run into him. Rubbing his nose, the young servant apologized, but Sir Hentric seemed not to care. Surprised at the sudden silence, Merlin followed his glance- and felt an icy hand clench his heart. Right in front of them, on the ground surrounded by books, a figure dressed in slightly antiquated robes was lying on the ground. A little pool of blood had formed on the stone-floor.

Merlin felt his fingers suddenly grow cold and a strange tingly sensation on his cheeks, like he was being poked with many small needles. His heart was beating fast enough to jump out of his chest and Merlin felt his whole body beginning to shake. "Gaius" -he gasped.

As if waking up from a trance, Sir Hentric rushed over to the motionless figure and turning the old physician on his back, pressed an ear to his chest. Agonizing seconds passed. Then he looked up. "He's alive. Run and get someone to help me carry him!" the knight commanded in an urgend, but not unfriendly, tone. Merlin did as he was told. All the way his mind was blank from all but one thought: Who would want to hurt Gaius?

And then an even worse thought dawned on him. What if Gaius hadn't been hurt by anyone? What if he was affected by the same thing as the townspeople?

/~/

The first thing Arthur did after accompanying the king into the physician's chambers, was quickly check his servant. He saw what he had expected to see, worry, fear and red puffy eyes. What he had not expected, was how small and lost Merlin looked in the flickering light of the candles, as he was sitting next to the motionless body of his mentor.

Merlin, who had noticed them coming in, quickly wiped some tears of his face and stood up. "Sire" he said. His voice was muffled and he sniffed violently once or twice. What had been meant to sound respectful came out rather pitiful.

It didn't happen often that Arthur was at a loss for words. He suddenly felt the urge to put an arm around his servant's shoulder and tell him that everything would be alright, but he didn't. Firstly, because it would be highly inappropriate with his father and several knights in the room. Secondly, because he didn't want to lie to him. After all, there was a good chance that everything would not be alright.

"Boy, what happened?" Uther asked, ignoring the obvious state of emotional disarray Merlin was in. Merlin sniffed once more, then put on his calm face. Arthur had seen him do this several times. It was true, Merlin was the most atrocious liar he had ever met, but when it came to masking what he was feeling, sometimes Arthur dimly suspected, he was more than capable of fooling even him. It sounded paradoxical, but Arthur knew that the two were entirely different things.

"Gaius told me yesterday that he wanted to check on some of the villagers this morning. There had been reports of a sickness going around." Merlin began to report, leaving out the particulars for now. "He was gone when I woke up, so I thought he had already left. When I went to the village this afternoon, I learned that he hadn't been there yet..." Merlin's voice choked and Arthur briefly feared he might start crying again. But if it was so, Merlin caught the impulse just in the nick of time. "So I went looking for him. I found him like this in the library."

"I see." Uther said. "Arthur, I want you to go to town and find a physician that can replace Gaius for the time being,-" he raised a hand to shut his son, who was about to protest, up. "We will need a physician to look after him. This boy has hardly the ability." he said, while throwing Merlin a dubious glance. He wasn't exactly clear on the relationship between him and Gaius, he believed the physician had mentioned him to be the son of his sister or niece. What he knew for certain was that even though the boy acted as an _assistant_ to the physician when the situation called for it, he was no _apprentice _of his.

Arthur who had perfectly understood his father's motivation but still disliked his tone, did not comment. He left the room, ready to be on his way to town, when he heard steps behind him. When he turned, he saw Merlin following him. "Go back. You should look after Gaius." Arthur said. It came out with more harshness than he intended. "I can't. You're father..." Merlin needn't continue. Uther had sent him to accompany Arthur. "Besides, I doubt you know any of the physicians in town." Merlin added while attempting a grin. "If you just go asking around, you'll be totally lost without me." Again Arthur was more than amazed at how quickly Merlin bounced back to his usual demeanor. It was in moments like this that he could have sworn that there was much more to his manservant than he would let on. Like there was something hiding behind layers and layers of smiles and jokes. Something that was not a joke at all. He wasn't even sure whether he wanted to learn about it.

"I think I am perfectly capable of navigating my hometown." Arthur said. Merlin grinned and this time it came off completely natural. "We'll see about that." Arthur snorted. As if.

However, as they proceeded, Arthur soon had to admit that he had no idea where they were. He never knew that Camelot had this many streets. When he went to town he usually just stayed on main-road or the marketsquare. Merlin on the other hand was smoothly turning corners and "taking shortcuts". Sometimes people in the street would stop to greet the serving boy and chat with him. However, Merlin always politely apologized, saying they were in a hurry. As soon as the other person noticed Arthur, they would immediately avert their eyes, bow politely and take their leave. When they had gone through that procedure for the seventh time within ten minutes, Arthur groaned. "Merlin. Do you know every single person in town? Need I remind you that we better hurry up?" He had no idea how his servant had gotten so popular in town. Probably, he thought, this is where he wastes his time when he should be working.

Merlin grinned. He didn't know himself why, but people just seemed to enjoy talking to him. He almost never got out of his trips to town without making some new acquaintance. Actually, most of these people he had met while they were bombarding him with fruit. He guessed that his regular stunts in the stocks had brought him some local fame.

He stopped in front of a run down looking stone-house. In comparison with the low built houses in this area of town, it was tall, having four floors. He knocked at the door. A grumpy looking old woman opened the door. "Who is it?" her eyes looking around frantically. "It's me." Merlin said. Arthur was briefly taken aback. Merlin was facing the woman directly and it seemed like he knew her. So why didn't she recognize him? When her eyes met his however, he realized by their murky colour that she was blind. "Ah, Merlin. Is that Gaius with you?" She stared in Arthur's direction. Merlin's face darkened briefly. "No. That's Prince Arthur." he told her. She immediately bowed. "My Lord." He was about to return the gesture but realized that it was pointless. Instead he said "Good day." She snickered. "It's a day alright, but it ain't a good one. Not around these parts." Then she turned back to Merlin. "So, what do you want? Getting a book for Gaius?" she asked. "No. But I do need to speak to Iestyn. Is he here?" he replied. She snickered again. "He's in, alright, but he ain't here. Always got his head up in the clouds, he has. Locked himself in his room, as always. Has my house stinking all over with his brew, he has." She stepped aside. "It's not pretty but it is good." she commented when Arthur passed her by into a murky hall. A narrow wooden staircase led to the upper floors on his right. From the old paintings on the walls and the dusty furniture he could see that the inhabitants of the house must have once been wealthy, but the down trodden state of things told him that those times had long gone by. "Thank you, Lady Marys." Merlin said. Arthur frowned. This old hag was a lady? The woman snickered again. "Always with the lady, aren't you a smooth talker. He's a heartbreaker this one." She said, cocking her head in Arthur's general direction. "Makes the girls in this house fall all over for him."

Arthur didn't believe his ears. Merlin, a heartbreaker? He felt like this little trip into town revealed a side of Merlin which he never knew existed. Here, Merlin wasn't the clumsy and inept manservant everybody up in the castle seemed to think he was. Merlin touched the woman's arm gently and pressed it before beginning to climb up the stairs. Arthur followed. "When you talk to him, tell him to throw out his blasted stinking brew. It drives away the gentlemen!" The old woman shouted up the stairs.

They turned into a hall on the second floor. A young woman in revealing clothes was leaning against a wall, smoking a long pipe. The material of her dress was worn down and her face was heavily painted. "Hullo, hullo. Who'd 'ave thoght. 'Tis Merlin. Finally come to learn t'visit me, luv?" she asked, mockingly while throwing back her hair. Merlin smiled and shook his head. "Not today. I'm here to see Iestyn." She pouted. "Always coming with the 'xcuses. But one day, you'll give in. I'll make it cheap for you." She looked at Arthur. "Well, arn't you a fine looking one as well? How bout it? If he don't want to, I'll take you."

Merlin looked a little flustered when he saw the deep look of indignation on Arthur's face when he realised he was talking to a working girl. "He's with me Gladys." He passed her by and signalled Arthur to do the same. "So this is what you do when you come to town?" asked the prince. Merlin blushed and violently shook his head. "It's just how she is." He knocked at another door. Something inside the room crashed and Arthur heard hurried steps drawing close. The door creaked and an old man stuck out his ruffled head. "Merlin, lad. Glad to see ya. Got a book I wanted to send to Gaius. It's going to blow the old chaps mind." he opened the door further and the young men stepped inside. The old woman had not been exaggerating. The room stank. Arthur guessed that the sorce of the disgusting odour was an equally unpleasant looking greenish liquid boiling in a glass over a candle, dispensing thick smoke through the room. "Is he doing well, up there in his tower?" the old man asked, while limping to his workplace. Then he looked at Arthur. "And who's your friend? Did he finally get himself a proper assistant?"

"Actually..." Merlin started. He explained the situation to the man, whose face suddenly got serious. "Is it the illness then, lad?" he asked. "I don't know for certain." said Merlin. "But I'm afraid it is."

Arthur was confused. What the hell were they talking about? Iestyn frowned. "Poor old chap. You want me to go up there then?" he asked. Merlin nodded. "The king wished for the best physician from town to attend." Arthur felt like he had to take over the conversation. The man laughed. "And this lad brought you here then?" he asked, cocking his head like a bird. "Your services will be well rewarded" Arthur added. The man's face brightened. "Well, I don't know about the best, but I am a physician. Give me a moment." He limped out of the room into an adjoining one.

"Merlin, where are we?" Arthur hissed, not able to hold back anymore.

"Iestyn is an old friend of Gaius." The servant explained. "They learned from the same master. Everything Gaius knows about medicine, Iestyn also knows." He looked around the room. "He used to be court physician in Mercia, something happened and he came here. If somebody can help, it's him."

The old man came back into the room, carrying a heavy bag. "Let's go then lads, shall we." he said. "Can't have the old chap waiting for to long."

Arthur sighed as they left the house and followed the street up to the castle. He didn't know what his father would make of this person, but he probably wouldn't be too thrilled.

/~/

Night had fallen. Iestyn had examined Gaius and confirmed Merlin's worst fear. Gaius had indeed fallen prey to the illness that was spreading in town. Uther had called a meeting of the council and the old man was informing the members of the situation.

Merlin carefully drew a blanket of his mentor, gently stroking his forehead. Then he quietly left the room. By now he had much experience sneaking out of the castle. He followed the road, illuminated by nothing except the moon to a spacious meadow a mile of the castle. He breathed in deeply and let the ancient words come to him, shouting them into the starry sky. His eyes glowed golden in the darkness.

He didn't have to wait long until he heard the batting of gigantic wings. The ground beneath trembled when the Great Dragon landed.

"You came." He said, still surprised at the power his words held over the ancient beast

"Of course. You called. What is it, young warlock?"

"I need your help!"

The dragon laughed quietly. "When have you ever not?" he asked. "What do you wish to ask me?"

"People are falling ill all over town. They're dying! I think it's magic."

The dragon raised it gigantic head into the nightbreeze and scented it.

"Yes, young warlock. It is magic."

Merlin sharply drew in some air. "So you can tell me what is going on?" he asked.

"Yes" the Dragon answered with his solemn voice.

"This land is being haunted by a Mære."

**/~/**

_Question to my riding readers: How often **do** stables have to be mucked out? And do horses like apples? I never quite got into horses when I was at that age, my birthday-present of choice was a pellet-gun, so I know next to nothing about them. Just that they sleep standing up. I think. Do they?_

_Well, please**R&R**. I was very flattered that some of you put this on their story alert list, but I would really love some quality feedback. Where was it funny? Where was it thrilling? Where did I completely fail at making you laugh (or fret, or cry)? Do I need to pick up the pace or am I jumping from one point to the other to fast? _


	3. Wandering Minds

_Welcome back everybody for one more chapter of _ Mære. _Before we move on, there's some thanks to be said:_

_First off, to those who left reviews: Thank you so much, I'll keep your advice in mind! Please keep R&R-ing._

_To those who added this to their favs: Wow, thank you! I hope I won't disappoint you._

_Last but not least: A bucket full of thanks to Fishy Biscuit, who has agreed to beta this story and has done a great job on this chapter. Cookie for you._

_Well, without much further ado, the curtain is drawn for..._

**/~/**

Chapter 3: Wandering minds

Grass blades rocked in an ominous breeze as Merlin looked up to the Great Dragon, the starry sky glittering behind him.

"This land is being haunted by a mære," the ancient creature said.

"What is a mære?" Merlin asked, feeling that the words had importance but not quite sure why.

"They are creatures of myth, as old as humanity itself. It is said that they were born from the blood shed in the first war waged by mankind," the dragon replied.

"At night they haunt people in their sleep and bring forth the worst of nightmares. It is what they feed on, the deepest fears and agonies in a person's heart."

"And that's what's causing all this?" Merlin asked.

"Yes, young warlock."

"Then how do I stop it?"

"If you wish to save Camelot, you have to kill the creature. Then those who have fallen pray to the mære will be released from its grasp."

Merlin thought for a while. It sounded easy enough. Find the deadly magical creature and kill it. Just another day in Arthur's services.

"Where do I find it?" he asked. If it was a creature of magic, it could probably only be killed by magic. Maybe he could take Lancelot with him. The knight had proven himself to be quite proficient in these kinds of things. Everything would be back to normal in the blink of an eye and Uther would have no reason to divert himself by executing innocent people. Arthur would, as always, be completely oblivious. Sounded good to Merlin.

"Not so fast young warlock," the Great Dragon said, as if he had read his thoughts. Maybe he had. One never knew with that fellow.

"The mære lives in two planes of existence. One body in this world and another in the realm of dreams. To kill this creature, you have to destroy both forms."

All right, so maybe it wouldn't be that easy. No surprise there, when was it ever? He'd explain the situation to Lancelot, enchant his weapon of choice. Then they would split up. Lancelot would take care of the physical form. Maybe he should take Gwaine with him, for safety's sake. Merlin meanwhile would enter...that was when he realized the fatal flaw in his hatching plan.

"So how do I enter the realm of dreams? Do I just fall asleep?" he asked. It probably wouldn't be that simple. That would just disturb the order of the universe.

"No, Merlin. The mære cannot be found in one's own dreams. To kill it, you will have to enter someone else's mind."

Things were getting complicated, Merlin felt. Big surprise.

"So how do I do that?"

"Entering the Realm of Dreams, young warlock, is a dangerous and complicated feat. It can be learned by those of the Old Religion given the right amount of time and practice. But I fear your situation calls for quick action. Even your ability will not suffice to learn in time."

Merlin felt his hope fade away.

"Then what am I supposed to do?" Merlin heard his own voice tremble. There had to be some way, or else Camelot was doomed. Gaius would die.

"There are those of the Old Religion who have an innate ability to wander the minds of others. Unfortunately, most of them perished in the Great Purge."

Merlin felt his heart sink. Once again Uther was the one responsible for the disappearance of all help. Now everyone would pay for his insipidity. He lowered his head, distraught.

"Do not fear. There are still wanderers left in this land. And now that the Realm of Dreams is closer to this world than ever, their ability will become strong. Find one and you will be able to save Camelot."

"And where am I supposed to find such a person?"

"That I cannot tell you. In due course you will meet. Those of the Old Religion always know how to find one another in times of need."

"You said yourself, we don't have time!" Merlin shouted. The dragon's nonchalant attitude was infuriating him.

"It is little, but it is hope," Killgarrah replied. "Many will die, but many can still be saved."

"In the meantime, those who have as of yet not been afflicted by the curse can be protected by this knowledge I will give you." The dragon opened his mouth and as he had already done once before, breathed on Merlin. The young man felt the warm breath and with it pieces of thought and images streaming into his consciousness.

The ancient creature spread its wings, ready to fly away.

"Wait!" Merlin shouted. "If those of the Old Religion find each other, why don't you just tell me? I can save everyone with your help!"

The dragon laughed. "My power is not without limit, young warlock. Without training the ability is rarely known to those who posses it and even I can not sense what is not there yet. But under these circumstances it will grow strong enough to be used based on instinct."

"And just how am I supposed to tell Arthur that we have to find a sorcerer to save Camelot? He'll never go along with it!"

"That will be your problem to solve." With that, the dragon batted its wings and rose into the air to soon disappear beyond the horizon with great agility. Merlin was left standing alone in the middle of the meadow surrounded by nothing but the woods and darkness. So much for the merits of being a dragon-lord. Cryptic messages and cold chills at night, he thought as he wandered back to the castle.

When he returned to Gaius' chambers, Iestyn was sitting in the dark room, lit only by a candle.

"There you are, lad. I thought you had run off to somewhere with a pretty girl," he greeted the young man as he entered. Merlin frowned. He had always felt that Gaius' old friend was somewhat irksome.

"Have you found the solution to our problem then?"

Merlin blinked. "Why do you think that?" he asked warily.

"Because this is an illness caused by magic. Who would be more capable of solving the problem than one who holds magic himself?" the old man asked slyly.

"I do not..."

"Don't bother lad. I might be a senile old man, but I am not stupid. The old chap's been borrowing magic books from me ever since he took you in, that he did."- and with a quick glance at Merlin's face he added: "Don't you worry. I have no quarrel with the craft and I will not tell anybody."

Merlin still hesitated. But then again, Iestyn was one of Gaius' oldest friends and the physician had often told his ward that he trusted the man completely. If he had been borrowing books on magic from him, that must be true. Merlin decided that the current situation warranted the risk. He would not have known how to put his knowledge of a protection against the mære to use by himself anyway. He sat down across the table and told the physician everything he had learned.

As soon as he finished, the old man got up and after limping across the room began to shuffle through items on the shelves. "We'd better get to work then, hadn't we? I'll be counting on your help with the enchantment, lad," he said, as he began to mix together various liquids and powders.

It wasn't until the night was drawing to a close that the two men stopped working. In a kettle above the fireplace a purple liquid was simmering quietly. Iestyn smirked, pleased with himself like a cat that had caught a big fish from the pond. "You should get some rest lad. I'll present this to the king in the morning." With a wink and a small song on his lips he left Merlin alone.

The young sorcerer, exhausted from the hard work, drew a chair to Gaius' bed and watched his mentor's face, thinking about how the hell he was supposed to find that cryptic wanderer the dragon had told him about.

/~/

Merlin must have fallen asleep while sitting at Gaius' bedside, for when the door flew open with a crash, he jerked up and glanced around the room disoriented. Five knights came storming into the dusky chamber. Merlin jumped up. "What is going on?" he asked, panicked. Did something else happen while he was asleep?

Without saying a word, one of the knights, Merlin could not see his face because it was hidden by a helmet, grabbed his arm and forced him to kneel on the ground. Another knight, his face equally barred from sight, pulled both of Merlin's arms behind his back and bound them together with what must have been a rope. A gag was being shoved in his mouth and tied behind his head so hard that is ripped the corners of his mouth.

"Check it. You can not allow him to speak," said a horribly familiar voice. Merlin blinked through a curtain of tears that had shot into his eyes at the sharp pain shooting through his body. A vague figure was standing in front of him, becoming clearer and clearer as he looked on. It was Arthur. Right behind him, Uther.

Merlin struggled for breath. Part of his nose was being covered by the cloth in his mouth.

"Merlin of Ealdor. You have been seen consorting with sorcery."

Merlin's eyes widened. Had Iestyn told on him after all? But why?

He directed his terrified look at Arthur. The prince's features were distorted with hate. The only time Merlin had seen such an expression of mad rage on his face was when he had learned about the true circumstances of his birth.

The sun had just risen from the horizon and damp morning mist was streaming into the chamber from outside, settling in Merlin's clothes and on his skin. He felt the cold creep through his entire body as his heart was racing as if trying to break out of his ribcage. He wanted to ask, to plead, to explain, but when he tried moving his mouth the cloth tore only further into his skin, leaving him wincing in pain.

Arthur pressed the tip of his sword against Merlin's throat. "Try to run and so help me God, I will kill you," he hissed. "Try to say even one word of an enchantment and I will run you through. Is that understood?"

Merlin couldn't even nod, so hard did the sword press against his throat. Uther signalled one of the knights, who untied the gag. Merlin drew a desperate breath and spit out some of the blood that was quickly flowing into his mouth. He opened his mouth, but the pressure against his throat increased even further. He felt his skin rip.

"You have heard the accusations against you. What say you?" Uther asked. The sword moved away just enough for him to be able to speak.

"I didn't do anything," he gasped. His voice was creaking and breaking.

"Liar!" Uther spat. "You have been seen conjuring and talking to a creature of magic. Do you still deny your guilt?"

The Great Dragon. Somebody must have seen him leave the castle, must have followed him to the meadow.

"I was trying to help!" he whispered, desperately. "Arthur, please...you know me. I would never..." but the pressure against his throat increased again.

"So you admit to it?" asked Uther, his cold steel-grey eyes fixed on his face.

"Please..." his voice broke off again. But Arthur's eyes, strangely unfamiliar, continued to stare at him mercilessly. Stare at him, but not see him, Merlin, the servant, the friend. Seeing only the shape of what he hated, the shape of a dreaded sorcerer. His pleas, Merlin realised, would not reach Arthur. He did not hear his words.

A scream of desperation was fighting its way up his throat and he had to use all of his energy to suppress it.

"Take him away," Uther commanded, turning his back and walking out the door. "He will be executed as soon as the sun has risen. Once he is dead, the enchantment will be broken and Camelot will be saved." Uther left, as did three of the knights. Left were only the two holding Merlin down and Arthur, who did not move a muscle.

Suddenly, Merlin's heart stopped racing. It seemed like all blood was leaving his body, leaving his limbs tingling and his skin crawling. Every breath he attempted to take brought a new wave of crushing sensation in his chest.

"How long?" Arthur's voice sounded alien, having lost all of its always arrogant but warm, mocking tone. Left was only frosty disdain and scorn.

"How long have you been plotting to destroy Camelot? Did Morgana incite you to do it? Or was it even before that? Maybe from the first day we met? When did you learn magic?"

Merlin tried to answer, but the words wouldn't come out. The trembling hatred in Arthur's voice filled the space around him and he felt as if, just like the mist, it was settling on his clothes, clinging to his skin and seeping into every fibre of his being. His breathing was growing increasingly laboured, what little air he managed to draw in didn't seem to reach his lungs. Was it possible to drown in another man's rage?

"Answer me." Arthur stressed every single syllable. Merlin still could not speak. In the hallway he heard people talking, steps drawing closer and then disappearing again, leaving behind just an echo.

Suddenly Arthur grabbed his shirt, pulling him up to his height. "Answer me!" he growled. His grip was choking Merlin, but he finally managed to press out the words.

"I never wanted to harm Camelot."

Arthur's face coloured. "Liar. Why else would you learn magic?"

Merlin coughed. "I didn't. I was...born...like this." He really didn't have enough air left to speak. Things began to go black around him.

Arthur finally let go and Merlin dropped to the ground. He felt skin breaking on his knee. Arthur had turned his back on him. "Wait!" Merlin shouted, fighting back the nausea and darkness. This was his last chance. Not to survive. If he wanted to, he could knock out all present within seconds. If he wanted to, escaping would be easy. But escaping while Arthur thought him to be evil, while he wore that face thinking about him- it was not something Merlin could do. A little voice inside his head was telling him that he was being stupid. Who cared what Arthur thought of him? Giving up everything for Arthur just because some cryptic prophecy said that their destinies were entwined did not make any sense. His priority should be himself, his survival. Why should he care about anything but himself? But maybe there had been some truth to all those insults Arthur threw at him on a daily basis. Yes, he truly had to be a moron.

"Arthur. I need you to believe me. I don't care if your father has me executed, I need you to believe me when I say that I never planned to harm you. Not you." The words were barely understandable because his voice was so hoarse.

"Why should I believe that?" asked Arthur, his back still turned.

"Because I'm your friend!"

Arthur wheeled around, mad rage in his eyes. "You! You are not my friend. You are nothing to me!"

"If you really think like that..." Merlin's words were drowning in tears "then I implore you to kill me right now. Don't wait for the execution, just do it here."

Arthur hesitated, sword in hand, the air crackling between the two young men. Then he slowly raised his arm. Merlin closed his eyes. So it was like this. It would end like this. Strangely enough, he felt it was all right. Since he had come to Camelot, his life had been dedicated to serving Arthur. He didn't know why. It just...was.

Then came the blow.

/~/

Merlin woke up with a scream. The chair he had been sleeping on next to Gaius' bed crashed to the ground as he jumped up, still gasping for air, tears streaming all down his face. He took a step back and tripped over something, crashing to the ground. He barely broke the fall with his hands. He felt the rough stone-floor scratching open his hands. He could hardly find the strength to get back up, but he could not stay on the ground either. Blood was pumping in his ears and he felt as if he was suffocating. He wanted to get out.

"Merlin!"

He looked around frantically. Arthur was rushing towards him. "What are you..." Before Arthur could touch him, Merlin slapped his hands away with a force Arthur would never have suspected him to posses, eyes widened in sheer panic.

"Don't touch me! Don't come near me!" he screamed, his hands pressed against his face and his thin body rocking violently back and forth. Arthur froze in mid-movement, shock on his face. "Merlin..." he said. The young man whimpered and started shaking uncontrollably. Arthur grabbed his hands and pried them off his face. At the sight of the pure terror in it he gasped involuntarily. Merlin, feeling his hands being restricted started kicking and throwing his body around violently. His head banged against the wall. Afraid that he might hurt himself, Arthur gripped him tighter and restraining any movement sunk against the wall. Even with all the adrenalin pumping through his body, Merlin was no match for the prince who had been training daily since he was able to walk.

"Merlin, for Heaven's sake calm down!"

After a while the young man's struggle died down. Arthur felt something wet dripping on his hands which were holding onto him tightly. Merlin was crying.

Time passed slowly as master and servant sat on the ground, Merlin's body growing limp in Arthur's arms and his breathing becoming calmer. Arthur felt the last bit of resistance passing. He noticed that he was shaking ever so slightly himself. Never in their entire time of knowing each other had he seen Merlin so panicked. The image of his distorted face would probably stay with him for years to come. Finally Arthur felt it was save to loosen his hold. Merlin sank against the wall next to him, eyes closed and face still pale.

"Merlin?" Arthur ventured carefully. The young man shuddered. "What the _hell_ was that?"

He didn't respond immediately. "Nothing," he finally replied. His voice was hoarse and the tone stone cold.

Arthur flinched at the sound of it. "That...was _not_ nothing."

Merlin stood up without saying a word and picked up the tipped over chair. Arthur grabbed his wrist before he could put any more distance between them. "Tell me," he demanded. Merlin looked at him with a strange expression in his eyes. Like he was seeing him for the first time.

"I had a nightmare," he said, still with the same monotone voice. "About...about Morgana." He shook off Arthur's hand and went over to the table to start moving around things on it aimlessly. He looked up. "What did you want?"

Arthur stared at him. He didn't believe a word of it. But the servant was obviously not inclined to tell him anything. "Nothing. It can wait. Be in my chambers in one hour," he said, also rising from the floor. When he left he heard Merlin shutting the door behind him with more force than necessary. He covered his mouth with one hand, trying to fight back nausea. Whatever Merlin's nightmare had been about, it hadn't been Morgana. Because when their eyes had met he had seen it. Terror. Not of a mirage seen in a dream and not of a memory. Merlin had been scared to death. Of Arthur.

/~/

Merlin closed the door behind Arthur and leaned hard against it. While the shaking had passed, he still didn't feel steady on his legs. When he had woken up, he had been panicked, all right. But that didn't even compare to what he had felt when he saw Arthur in the room with him. Everything on his mind had just gone blank. The only thing he could think of was that he needed to get away from him. In his dream he had been so calm when Arthur had dealt him the fatal blow. The only thought on his mind had been that he could no longer stand the expression of disgust on the prince's face when he looked at him. What terrified him above all things was not that Arthur had actually killed him- he had lived with that fear for years now. It was the fact that he had just sat there, willing to die by his hand if he should lose his friendship. Did he really hold such a terrible power over Merlin? It had been clear, though not entirely understandable, to Merlin since a long time ago, that he would willingly lay down his life to save Arthur's- he had been ready to do it more than once. But when had the prince's good opinion of him become such a fixed point in his life that he felt he could no longer live without it? Was this what it meant to be two sides of a coin? Merlin shuddered at the thought. He felt like he was helpless in the face of an all-encompassing cosmic order, like he was but a figure on a board without free will.

He looked at Gaius' motionless body on the bed. The sun had risen and its rays were floating through the chamber, enhancing the contrast between light and shadow. The world seemed to consist of nothing but light and dark. He ran his fingers through his hair. The bitter taste in his mouth seemed to dissipate slowly, but he was drained from crying.

Trying to get back to his cheery personality, he thought that Arthur would probably never let him live down the embarrassment of bawling like a girl because of a dream. However, the thought would not remain at the superficial humorous conclusion that from now on he'd probably go by the name of 'crybaby'. It wound its way through his consciousness until it reached the corner where the memory of Arthur's expression at the sight of Merlin's terrified face lay. He had looked like he had seen a ghost, his eyes widened with fear no less intense than Merlin's and - concern. He felt a sting of guilt when he thought about how he had shoved away the hands that reached out to help him and how he had scratched and kicked at him. How the hell was he supposed to face the prince after this? He had lied about the content of his dream and he had seen in Arthur's face that he knew. Knowing the prince's pitbull personality, he wouldn't let it go just like that.

He sighed. There was nothing to be done about that. He'd just have to go with the flow and make up something more convincing.

However, when he got to Arthur's chambers, the prince spoke no word of what had passed. He just acted as if it was a day like any other, heaping one chore after the other onto Merlin until he had so little time to think about anything but how the hell he was supposed to sharpen and polish all of Arthur's quite impressive collection of sharp and pointy things and attend to his practice with the knights simultaneously. As the day passed by between complaints, insults and the usual banter, he felt his habitual good humour returning to him.

Arthur was more than relieved to see that his strategy worked out perfectly. He couldn't help but congratulate himself on his sharp wits.

When he had returned to his room, he had not known how to face his servant. At first he had pondered forcing him to tell the truth. But when he remembered Merlin's monotonous voice in answering him, he dismissed the thought. Instead he resolved to crush Merlin with a workload so monumental that he wouldn't even have time to think about anything but completing his chores so as to not end up in the stocks, which he continued threatening him with. Merlin, he thought, was much too simple-minded to be able to think of more than one thing at once.

At first he had noticed the apprehension in the serving boy's behaviour when coming close to him. He was definitely trying to keep as much distance between them as possible. But Arthur had tamed too many dogs to be impressed by just that much. He kept on treating him as usual and over the course of the day the apprehension dissipated until they were arguing over unimportant things like there was no tomorrow. Arthur groaned when he thought about how the highpoint of his day had definitely been when Merlin, enraged about having to do another absolutely redundant task, had called him a royal clotpole. The prince could not believe he had stooped that low because of a mere servant.

Having at least temporarily resolved the situation that weighed heavily on his mind, he turned his thoughts to ponder more prince-appropriate issues.

At the council meeting the old man Iestyn had told them that he had found a way to prevent more people from falling ill. However, he had not offered an explanation to where the malady had suddenly come from or how to cure those already infected.

He undressed, leaving a trail of clothes on the way to his bed. He couldn't be bothered to pick them up. Let Merlin earn his wages for once, he decided as he crawled between the sheets, conveniently forgetting about every chore Merlin had completed that day. A yawn escaped him. It had been an exhausting day and the next one promised to bring even more tribulations with it. He'd better rest up well, he thought, as he slowly drifted into a comfortable deep sleep, completely oblivious to how much worse the next morning would turn out to be.

**/~/**

_Thank you for reading. If you liked it, do the second "R". Yes, that one where you have to click on a link and leave me a message so that I can call you back later. Thank you. Beep._

_Cheers, C._

_**Next Chapter:**__...everything goes to hell...maybe..._


	4. Monsters under your bed

_Welcome back everybody for the somewhat late fourth chapter of__** M**__**æ**__**re**__. Stuff was going on. Well, the good news is: It's here now!_

_The bad news is: Next Chapter might take a while. Yes, I know. Again? I'm sorry! I've got exams coming up. The bad, mean, awful kind of exams where 50% of the class fail. I don't want to fail!_

_I promise I'll get back to writing as soon as I have even the tiniest bit of spare time on my hands (well, no, I'll eat first)._

_Thanks to my readers, reviewers and to Fishy Biscuits, whose name I misspelled last time 'round, for beta'ing this chapter and... _

_I hope you all enjoy this chapter!_

/~/

Chapter 4: Monsters under your bed

For once, Merlin's waking experience was not accompanied by pain. For starters, he didn't wake up because he had died another gruesome death. Which really was progress because one can die only so many times until it gets old. Since he hadn't died, his body apparently hadn't felt the urge to say good morning to the floor. Indeed, waking up in an orderly fashion lying in one's own bed was something else.

After having eaten breakfast and carefully tying his trademark neckerchief, he briefly sat down at Gaius' bedside. Iestyn had been in earlier that morning and checked on the court physician. While he remained very much asleep, he had not received any further injuries in his dream and Iestyn even remarked that in comparison to the other patients Gaius looked rather peaceful. He had also been able to bring him to swallow some liquid nourishment so that for now there was no imminent danger to Merlin's mentor. That, together with his plan to use every bit of spare time researching the mære- a task Merlin profoundly hated and he thought about the dragon's typical refusal to tell him anything remotely useful to solving a problem begrudgingly- had calmed his mind. He would find out how to kill the mære and, he thought, continuing to habitually ignore Killgarrah's warnings pertaining to anything magical, if needed he'd find a spell to enter dreams and learn how to use it. His magic had never once betrayed him and he doubted it would now. Once the mære was gotten rid off, everything would go back to normal. Of course it wouldn't be quite that simple- take the dreaded research for example, which Merlin was sure would rob him of his last nerve- but he was hopeful and as they say, hope is a good breakfast. Unfortunately the second part of the proverb, which said that hope is a terrible supper had slipped Merlin's mind.

So it wasn't all that surprising that Merlin's manner was inappropriately cheerful when he drew back the curtains in Arthur's room and woke the prince with the usual words. Arthur on the other hand did not share his servant's sentiments at all, which he professed with a couple of very unprincely curses directed at the offender. Seeing Merlin's obnoxiously happy face after spending a whole day of walking on eggshells around him- at least Arthur's somewhat twisted and rather hard-boiled version of eggshells- made him feel like he'd been cheated. And Arthur did not fancy being cheated. Least of all by this goofy excuse for a servant.

When Merlin had picked up the trail of clothes Arthur had so considerately left behind for him the night before and not made even one complaint about spoiled royal prats, Arthur was beside himself with indignation. What was the point of exhausting himself by being messy if he couldn't annoy Merlin with it?

He had been right last night, he thought grudgingly. This day was off to an awful start and it would probably get worse. Which it did when Merlin actually started humming. Yes. Humming. In his presence, without permission. Never mind that he turned out to be disquietingly tone deaf.

As Arthur sat at his luxurious breakfast for which he did not really have the appetite- try eating when somebody next to you gives off noises like cats of various sizes are having their tails stepped on one after the other- he asked Merlin about Gaius' well-being, for one because he was really concerned, but also because he hoped that it would stop the ghastly performance. However, Merlin only looked up briefly from dusting Arthur's wardrobe and said "He's good, considering," and continued on making the same dreadful noise. Arthur resigned himself to his fate, groaning quietly. This day definitely would bring no good.

As soon as he had drawn that conclusion, they heard a knock at the door. Merlin answered it and a middle-aged servant Arthur vaguely remembered to be employed in the kitchen stuck his bearded head in.

"I'm sorry to disturb you so early in the morning, Sire, but the king has expressed his wishes to breakfast with you," he informed Arthur after a respectful bow. Arthur was mildly surprised. His father had not requested his presence at breakfast since ...well, since the Morgana-incident. Arthur guessed that family breakfast had become a painful memory. He rose from his table and signalled Merlin to follow. At least the servant would probably not have the audacity to continue his display of torturous musical talents right under the nose of the King of Camelot. Or so Arthur hoped, but more often than not he doubted whether Merlin had even one ounce of common sense in that skinny head of his.

/~/

When Arthur entered the murky great dining hall he saw his father sitting alone at the end of the gigantic oaktable. Once again Arthur noticed how much he had aged in these past two months. He had lost weight and heavy bags cast deep shadows beneath his eyes. He did not look like a mighty king but rather like an old man, his back bent under the burdens life had placed upon him. It was in moments like this that Arthur felt the strong impulse of filial affection to rush over and bury his head in his father's chest as he had done so many times when he was but a naïve child whenever he had sensed the great king to be troubled. However, he knew that neither would his father's pride allow that to happen nowadays nor would the heavy weight of Morgana's betrayal be lifted off his shoulders by such an action. As such, Arthur hinted a bow and took his place at his father's right side. Merlin assumed his usual position in the background.

"I am glad you joined me, Arthur," Uther said, giving him a sincere smile.

"I am glad you wished for me to join you, father," Arthur replied equally sincere. Uther briefly pressed his hand, then signalled the servants to bring up the food. As they were being served, Uther inquired after the progress of Arthur's training with the knights, even asking in particular about how the newest additions were faring. He listened with benevolent interest as Arthur reported on Elyan's and Parcival's progress. The two young men had met with some difficulty acclimating to the harsh regime, but they were steadily integrating into the corps and becoming valued comrades. Uther seemed to be pleased at the news; something, Arthur noted, the king from two months ago would never have been. Many things had changed in Camelot since Morgana's brief but cruel reign, but maybe not all of them for the worse. Uther, who had at times been overbearingly patronizing before, had begun to value his son's opinions and suggestions more than ever. It let Arthur hope that maybe in due time, he would even come to begrudgingly accept Guinevere, instead of ignoring the matter all together. Out of the corner of an eye he saw Merlin smiling softly as he poured some water into the prince's goblet and he knew that the servant, who was close friends with Gwen, shared his thoughts.

Arthur had to admit that, as much as he had sometimes felt berated by his father on these occasions in the past, he had missed such peaceful conversations in the morning. He hoped that maybe from now on they would become a more regular occurrence. Maybe the hole Morgana had ripped in both their hearts would slowly begin to heal.

Uther wiped his mouth with a napkin after he had eaten enough. As soon as Arthur had done the same, he signalled the servants to take the plates away and, leaning back in his chair, looked at Arthur as if he was pondering something. Arthur returned his gaze, indicating that he was ready to listen to whatever his father was about to tell him.

"I know, son," Uther began, "that in the past month's I have not been as much support to you as I should have been in these grievous times." His eyes briefly lingered on the empty place where Morgana had used to sit and a painful expression flew over his face. However, he instantly collected his thoughts and continued on.

"I have been placing a lot of responsibility on you. More maybe than a man in your position should have to handle."

Arthur shook his head. "I am glad to have been of help to you, Sire," he said sincerely. It was true, sometimes the weight of his duties had been crushing, but seeing his father sit before him recovered from his grief more than made up for it.

His father gave him a grateful and proud smile. However it dissipated quickly. Arthur suspected what was to come.

"Which is why it grieves me to once more ask something of you which, I know, has been repulsive to you in the past. However, it must be done." Uther's voice had gained determination and his face assumed that certain expression it always had when talking about these things.

"As you know, the physician Iestyn has determined the origin of the illness plaguing Camelot to be magical." His father paused as he hissed that last word with more disdain than ever.

"The recent events," again his gaze briefly rested on Morgana's empty seat, "have once more reaffirmed what I have known for a long time. Magic is capable of corrupting even the gentlest of minds and twist them into evil. It must therefore be persecuted and eradicated vigorously. This new vicious attack on our land has proven it beyond the shadow of a doubt."

Arthur felt Merlin shifting behind him.

"We have a duty to Camelot and its people to protect them of the exploits of sorcerers and their kin."

Arthur did not know whether he was expected to reply. He knew that what his father said had merit in its own, cruel way. But his soul revolted at the memory of the mass executions that had tinged the sky above Camelot crimson with flames following the defeat of the immortal army. Some of those pronounced guilty of consorting with sorcerers had had only marginal contact with magic, often not aware of what fate would befall them. Surely it could not be necessary for people to perish on mere suspicion alone. However, Arthur knew his father would not be moved on this.

"I understand, father" he said, keeping his voice as calm and steady as he only could. He still could not suppress a barely noticeable tremble in his words. "I will instantly instruct the knights to take the necessary measures."

Uther seemed mildly surprised at the lack of resistance. Nonetheless, he nodded and took a sip from his goblet to moisten his dry throat.

"Do you wish me to personally oversee the matter?" asked Arthur reluctantly. He knew his father would.

Merlin, who had been observing the conversation up till now at first with goodwill while it revolved around the knights and later with increasing discomfort, suddenly felt his feelings change to nothing but full blown panic. At first, his emotions reacted faster than his brain did. For an instant he could not understand why, as appalling as the current topic of conversation was, he would feel such terror rising up inside him. It wasn't the first time he had heard it and he had most certainly expected to hear it again, especially with what was going on. Then the memories hit him with the full brunt of a blazing fire. Kneeling on the ground, his hands tied behind his back. Arthur's eyes looking at him in disgust. Arthur's sword cutting through his flesh like butter. Arthur personally overseeing the matter.

He felt his breath stop and in a flash all senses left his body. The thing he was holding- what was it again?- slipped through his numb hands and crashed to the ground, Merlin, whose knees gave way under him, following right behind. The world around him sunk into deafening silence, the only thing left was a loud, high-pitched ringing in his ears. He felt his body move to do something, gestures he should recognize, but they felt so alien- as if something else had taken over his form, leaving him to stand by and watch. Except, he couldn't see anything.

Arthur startled around when he heard a loud clattering behind him. Merlin was kneeling on the ground, picking up the pitcher he had been serving him water from. Its contents were splattered all over the stone floor. Arthur groaned inwardly at the more than unwelcome interruption, however the sound stuck in his throat when Merlin raised his head and looked directly into Arthur's eyes. The expression Arthur had secretly prayed he would never have to see on the young man's face again had returned. It was the same deadly terror it had borne when he had looked at Arthur in Gaius' chambers the day before. When their eyes met, Merlin quickly averted his gaze and picked himself up. Arthur could see him shaking slightly as he stood. The prince was more than devastated. Just this morning Merlin had been smiling happily and spreading unwanted good cheer. Arthur would have gladly listened to his appalling humming every day of his life, if he never had to see that look again. What in Heaven's name had so stirred Merlin that he could not suppress his trembling at the mere memory of a dream? And how did this conversation play into it?

Arthur saw his father regard the serving boy with utter disdain. Right now, he could not ease Merlin's fear but lest he lose his job, he would have to take his father's mind off him.

He cleared his throat and turned to face his father. Uther slowly averted his eyes from Merlin and continued the conversation.

"Indeed, this is a matter that demands our undivided attention. However, before we begin to search for the culprit, we have to protect those in Camelot who have not as of yet been affected. I have ordered Iestyn to prepare enough potion to supply our citizens with the vaccine. I want you to accompany him into town and oversee the distribution first. After we are safe from the enchantment's influence we will concentrate our energies on locating the one responsible," the king said.

Arthur sighed. At least he would have a day to brace himself for what was to come. He bowed slightly.

"I will get to it immediately," he said, rising from the table. His father looked at him with a strange look in his eyes.

"Thank you Arthur. I have taken your loyalty for granted but I have been taught a lesson. You do not know how much your support means to me," he said warmly.

At any other moment Arthur would have relished in these word. Now however, his mind was occupied by another matter. He bowed again. "Thank you, father," he said and left the dining hall. He could hear Merlin follow behind him at more distance than usual. As soon as they were out of hearing reach he turned around- and involuntarily took a step back. Merlin's face was ashen and in his eyes was a hunted look. As soon as he noticed Arthur looking at him, he flinched. Arthur felt his heart sink. This was worse than yesterday. That time Merlin had looked scared to death all right, but he had seen Arthur. Now his eyes were directed at him, but they did not seem to lock onto his figure. Instead they were fixed on something only he could see. Now Arthur would have given anything to receive any sign of recognition, and be it fear. He instantly knew that yesterday's strategy would not work a second time. He cleared his throat.

"Merlin."

The young man seemed not to hear him.

"Merlin!" he said, louder.

Blue eyes wandered aimlessly, until they finally found his face.

"Yes, Sire." Toneless voice, trailing off into the distance.

"Go look after Gaius. I won't be needing your services today," Arthur brought himself to say. Merlin looked at him as though he did not understand. Then:

"Yes, Sire. Thank you, Sire."

Flinching at the unusually formal address, Arthur waited for some kind of movement but the serving boy just continued to stand there as if he had been glued to the spot.

Arthur turned his back. He could no longer stand to look at that face void of any human emotion. As he proceeded down the hall, he briefly wondered whether he would ever get to see Merlin's normal face, hear his impudent remarks that had grown on him in these past four years again. Judging from what he had seen, it was likely that he would not.

/~/

Merlin felt as if he was coming to the surface after having been submerged deeply in dark water for hours. The sounds that had all but quieted down slowly reached their normal level again. He found himself standing alone in a dark hall. Briefly he wondered what had happened, but then he remembered.

Uther ordering the dreaded mass execution of magic users. Arthur. Agreeing to personally oversee the process.

When he had heard those words coming out of the prince's mouth, he had instantly snapped back to the scene when Arthur, with features distorted by hatred, had stood above him, ready to deliver a fatal blow. The mere memory of his agonizing wrath had overpowered Merlin. Again he had felt the despair at his own helplessness against the strong bonds that tied the two young men together. No matter how much he would struggle, he could not escape them.

He felt hot rage rising in his chest. Rage at Uther who had been so blinded by his hatred that he had lost the ability to see past the surface. Rage against Arthur who just willingly accepted whatever his father told him to do.

After the victory over Morgana's army Merlin had felt that things were about to change. That Arthur would emancipate himself from his father's opinions and stand his ground. Merlin laughed bitterly at the thought. The prince was just like him a puppet in the hands of a greater power, except that in his case the hands that were making him move were but mortal. If Merlin had come face to face with Uther this instant, he felt, he would strike him down without a second thought. How much misery was one single man allowed to inflict on others until the powers of the universe decided it was enough? To hell with prophecy, this...person...monster...was a menace to every breathing creature, twisting their souls just like he claimed the magic he dreaded so much did. And here Merlin was, being granted free access to him. It would be so easy. Tell the king he had a message from Arthur to deliver, or something along those lines, come close to him and with just one flick of a finger he could free the world from the poisonous sting of that spider. Who cared whether Arthur would unite Albion and return magic to Camelot. If he didn't, if he was too far gone under the influence of his father, with Merlin's power it would be easy to get rid of him as well. Have him tremble before him like Merlin trembled at the sight of the pyre, writhe in pain like Merlin did when he heard the dying screams of burning druids in his head, day after day after day...

With Merlin's power, he could unite Albion and beyond if he wanted to.

He felt the magic burning hot behind his eyes, his ever loyal friend waiting to be unleashed at his command, burning everything into the ground, scorching away the pain and suffering.

Just one flick of a finger and the natural order would be restored.

One small movement.

Just one.

Arthur's hands holding him as they sat in Gaius' chamber. His trembling body right behind Merlin, refusing to let go even though his skin was being torn by Merlin's nails. His face, full of concern when he saw his fear.

His composure in not pressing Merlin to tell him the truth even though he clearly desired it and believed to have the power to force him.

Arthur, not the monster's progeny but the young man who would lay down his life for a peasant in the blink of an eye. Who was ever torn between his allegiance to, his love for his father and his conscience. Arthur who was watching the pyres burn, his hands bathed in the blood of dozens of people and eyes filled with compassion.

Arthur's pained face when Merlin, who had professed to be his friend so many times, flinched at the sound of his voice.

Merlin almost screamed out in horror and mortification. Had that really been him, who was thinking of how easy it would be to kill Arthur, relishing in the idea of his trembling before him?

It would have been so easy to think it hadn't been him. That it had been some kind of vile creature, temporarily possessing him, hijacking his mind. But that wrath, that monster, was part of him, integrated in every fibre of his being. He could still hear it wail in his veins, scratching at the surface to be released. It was a monster no less terrible and cruel than Uther.

Merlin sank against a wall, trying to collect his thoughts. He had been planning on doing something, before his mind had sunk into this insanity. Something important, he knew. Something that could save lives...

Then his mind that had gone completely blank snapped back into place. The maere. He needed to research it, find out how to kill it. Then this whole...madness...would be over.

Placing one hand on the wall he steadied himself and took a couple of uncertain steps. His body, as alien as it felt to him this moment, was still his, listening to his command. He willed his feet to move further down the hall, down the stairs. Turn a corner. Proceed walking. The door to the library. Merlin stopped before it, briefly picking up the shards of what had been his personality and gluing them back together. If he wanted this to work, he needed to be himself, not that...thing.

/~/

Arthur watched as the line of people in front of the makeshift distribution cart for the potion grew shorter. Shadows had fallen and continued to grow, trying to consume the world around him. The autumn breeze that had been soft and warm at first, carrying the scent of dried leaves and ripe meadows to his nose, had turned sharp and cold, forcing tears to his eyes. Market-women shivering in the cold air were closing up their booths, throwing leftovers that could no longer be used onto the street. Several dogs and a couple of cats were skulking around the edge of the square, waiting for the turmoil to die down so that they could get their share of the day's business.

Arthur heard carts, drawn by horses or men, rattle away, down the main road until they disappeared in narrow alleys that had already given in to the reign of the shadows. A couple of children ran by him, laughing, holding stones and slingshots in their hands to divert themselves by chasing off the animals that feasted on the leftovers.

Vendors, shouting jokes to one another across the distance began to close up their stores, happily waiting to be reunited with their families at home after a hard day's work.

A young woman with a baby on her arm walked past him, humming a little lullaby. Her face, even though thin, seemed to glow from within as she looked at the sleeping child. She noticed him, broke out in a blissful smile and curtseyed, then continued on her way.

"How are we doing?" asked Arthur, looking at the knight beside him who was holding a long parchment in his hands. He looked down at it, counting briefly, then looked back to Arthur.

"All but twenty-two people have been by to receive the potion. Several of them have been reported to be sickly not being able to come here on their own. A messenger will be sent around to distribute the rest," he replied.

Arthur nodded. "Good. What about those who have not been reported disabled?"

"Farmers, due to return from their fields within the half hour."

Arthur slowly stretched his legs. He had been standing almost motionless for hours. If Merlin had been there, he could have at least diverted him with his never ceasing stream of senseless chatter. Arthur's face darkened briefly as he thought of his manservant. He wondered what he was doing now. Probably sitting in Gaius' chamber. Useless as he was, he tried to add humorously but the attempt failed. He pushed the thought away as he saw Iestyn limping toward him.

"All but little is gone," he said, nodding at a large barrel.

"Got it to almost all of them, did we chap?" he asked the knight, who frowned at the casual address but nodded nonetheless.

The old man procured a couple of corked glass vials. "That's for you lad," he said, handing them to a young freckled boy of about fifteen years. "Now run along and get them to where they belong." He produced a gold coin from his pocket and showed it to the boy. "That'll be for you if you're back within the half hour," he promised. The boy's eyes widened as he grabbed the vials and ran off quickly.

"You won't get nothing if you break one!" Iestyn shouted behind him. "Trust me, I'll know!"

Even though Arthur had no idea how exactly that was going to pass, he did not put it beyond this oddball who was now smirking to himself like an overfed cat.

"Nothing but a good day's work to brighten the mood, ey, lad?" he asked Arthur winking. This time it was Arthur's turn to frown. The old man apparently did not to care much for titles. Everyone beyond 40 seemed to be a chap or a m'am to him, everybody else was either lad or lass. He really could not see how this person and the always-proper Gaius could be close friends. Then again, friendships seemed to be forged from the oddest of relationships, as he knew from experience. If someone had told him he would be friends in all but name with a servant four years ago, he would have had them in the stocks for a month. Though, he thought, maybe that was in the past now, too. He was surprised at the profound sense of loss he experienced at that thought.

"Arthur?" said somebody's voice behind him, as he was flexing his arms above his head, stifling a yawn. He turned around, mouth still agape. When he saw who it was however, he quickly closed his mouth and banned every trace of unprincely tiredness from his face. Or so he hoped.

"Guinevere!" he exclaimed, partially elated, partially wishing he could sink into the ground to escape the disgrace of his display of bad manners. He felt how the tips of his ears turned a little warm. How come that he, who was accustomed to speaking to the masses without breaking a sweat would regress into a awkward little boy whenever he faced the young woman?

She smiled a little amused at his discomfort, not nearly as well masked as he fancied it to be.

"Are you distributing the remedy for the illness?" she asked, glancing at the barrel and Iestyn. Arthur replied in the affirmative. "Why have you not yet been here to get your share?" he asked. He had been here all day and he had not seen her, much to his disappointment.

"Elyan brought me some of the first batch when he returned from the castle yesterday," Gwen replied. The nobles and knights had received the potion shortly after Iestyn had reported to the king the day before.

"I see," said Arthur, rather unoriginally. He wished the knight and the old man were somewhere far away so that he could have some moments alone with the beautiful seamstress. As he glanced sideways, he saw the old physician smirk impudently. The knight was tactfully keeping his eyes fixed on a point at the farther end of the street, though the blatantly fake unconcern was no less discomforting than the knowing grin of the old man. This was a rather disquieting situation.

Gwen, who seemed no less uncomfortable with the atmosphere, shifted from one foot to the other.

"Will you be returning to the castle shortly?" she asked, breaking the awkward silence.

"Just as soon as the last farmers have received the potion," Arthur replied.

"Then I shall wait with you, Sire." she said, implying a curtsey. Arthur raised an eyebrow.

"Lady Alitha ordered a gown for tomorrow," Gwen explained, "and the errand boy who usually runs for me has fallen ill." Her voice saddened at that.

"Is there no way to cure those already affected?" she asked.

"If there is, I haven't discovered it yet, lass. But I haven't given up the hope that something will turn up" the physician replied warmly, strangely enough with a side-glance to Arthur. She gave him a small smile.

"How is Merlin holding up then, with Gaius being ill?" she directed her look back at Arthur, concern in her dark eyes. He shifted uncomfortably. He did not want to tell Guinevere about what had happened between him and his servant. If the situation were to just blow over, it would only worry her unnecessarily. If it was not, well, then there was probably not much she could do either.

"I don't know." he said, trying to match his usual nonchalant tone when talking about Merlin. "I gave him the day off. No doubt he's lazing around somewhere." There was more indignation in his voice than he would have liked and Gwen looked at him reproachfully. If Merlin was ever going to get back to normal, Arthur swore, he'd pay for this.

A couple of figures approached the small group, pulling a cart with rusty tools. Iestyn immediately limped over to the barrel and distributed the rest of the liquid while the knight to Arthur's right was checking names. When the men had left, Arthur turned to him.

"Is that it then," he asked.

"Yes, Sire. Every one registered to be an inhabitant of the lower town and the closest surrounding villages has received the remedy."

Arthur frowned slightly as he thought about the further outlying villages, whose inhabitants had no way of reaching town in time. Hopefully, though, the illness hadn't spread that far.

"Shall we return to the castle then, lad?" asked Iestyn, addressing Arthur. "I am certain the king awaits your report fretfully, the old chap."

Arthur suddenly had to suppress a laughter at the thought of his father's reaction should he ever learn he was being called an old chap. Gwen, who was apparently imagining the same scene was not so successful and giggled, throwing Arthur an apologetic look. His mouth twitched. His fight for composure was interrupted by the return of the freckled boy, who, gasping for air stared at Iestyn expectantly. The old man laughed and gave him the gold coin. The boy beamed.

"Now run home to your mother, lad" the physician said. "And be sure to be careful!"

They watched as the boy disappeared, biting the gold coin on his way.

"Now we shall return," Arthur said. Seeing as Gwen had no horse, he took his by its reigns and together they began to walk up the hill ahead of the knight and the physician.

/~/

"Father, I have returned," Arthur said, as he approached the throne. The king smiled weakly as if he was distracted by something.

"We have succeeded in distributing the potion amongst the townspeople," he proceeded.

"That's good, very good," Uther said, still seemingly focused on something else.

"Then I will return to my chambers," Arthur said, surprised at his father's lack of concern with what had seemed very important to him in the morning.

"Yes, yes..." the king said.

Arthur turned but then hesitated.

"Father, are you feeling unwell?" he asked, approaching the man in the oversized throne. He received no answer. Arthur's stomach began to cramp up as he pushed an obnoxious dark misgiving to the far corner of his mind.

He had reached the steps to the throne and began to climb them. He was close enough to catch his father's limp body when it hunched over and began to fall. Arthur fell blood roaring in his ears, as he lay the motionless figure on the floor and pressed his ear to his father's chest. He thought he could discern a heartbeat, but he wasn't sure whether it was the king's or his own fluttering heart. Breathing became difficult to him as he felt panic take reign over his body, leaving his mind completely blank. Not now. Not like this.

He slapped his father, first softly, then as no response came, harder.

"Father!" he shouted, his own voice sounding alien.

Nothing.

He held a fluttering hand over his father's mouth and felt a barely noticeable gush of warm air. He was alive. For now.

"Help!" The cry bounced through the gigantic hall, meeting pillars and softly trailing off in an echo.

"I need some help in here!" he screamed again, not caring about how high and unnatural his voice sounded. And then again, desperately fighting against the thick lump in his throat.

"Help!"

/~/

_Like it? Hate it? Tell me!_

_Cheers, C._


	5. Evasive Manoeuvres

_Heya everybody, welcome back for another chapter. __Stop throwing fruit at me! I'm sorry for taking an eternity to update, I truly am! To be fair, I warned you...no, I'm not making excuses. That was rotten of me._

_I was a little, tiny bit disappointed at the lack of reviews. You know, they're like chocolate-cake. Is this me fishing for reviews? Please! I would never do such a thing. Probably._

_Then again, the amount of favourites and alerts is amazing, I'm so happy XD. Stop the ranting and get on with the story? Sure..._

_Thanks to nobleignominy for saving you from deadly-language assault (aka beta'ing) in this chapter. You rock._

Chapter 5: Evasive Manoeuvres

Merlin shut what felt like the hundredth book with a loud thud and groaned. As he looked around, he saw stacks of thick, dusty books with letters in various states of decay, spelling titles like "Folklore of Camelot- A Profile on Popular Beliefs," "Mythology and Truth in the Age of Knowledge," or "Brief Guide to Dreamology." However neither those nor the "The Comprehensive Lexicon of Myth" - really comprehensive, spanning fifty volumes and not sorted alphabetically - had given Merlin anything other than a headache. Sure, some of them had mentioned the mære, but the descriptions were about as various and random as the chores Arthur loved to force on Merlin. Why couldn't there be a book entitled "Monsters that Wreak Havoc in Camelot and Their Very Convenient Weaknesses"?

Ten hours into his research and Merlin was none the wiser. His eyes burned from deciphering odd handwritings in the murky light of the library and his nose itched with the buckets of dust he had inhaled. There was a reason why he loathed research and he had just been painfully reminded of it. He didn't understand how Gaius, or anyone, for that matter, could be so fond of it. He sighed again, put the book he had been reading, "Pagan Rituals and Dreams," aside. It had tried to convince him that the mære was a five-headed dragon which spit acid, appeased only by feeding thirteen virgins to each head, which was not really an option even if it were true. Merlin picked up the next book. He had marauded the shelves for every book that included the words 'dream', 'creature', 'monster,' etc. Seeing as he was in the Mythology Section there was an unreasonable amount of them. So how come they all spouted utter nonsense?

He skimmed through the poorly written and excruciatingly comprehensive report of a knight who claimed to have encountered the mære in his own dreams, something which, according to the Great Dragon, was impossible. As much as Merlin couldn't stand the tidbits of cryptic information Killgarrah seemed to enjoy feeding him so much, the dragon had yet to be proven wrong. As far as Merlin was concerned, anything that went against the dragon's claims was complete nonsense from the very beginning.

Merlin stretched, yawning heavily, but his yawn was interrupted when he stumbled upon the following passage:

"Desperate to serve my King and Country, I turned to a witch for help. She, an ugly old bat with a sinister look on her face, told me that there was a rare book, written by a monk two centuries ago, which could tell me about how to beat the mære, the "Almanac of Terrors." Of course, the book turned out to be a complete failure, saying that the mære could only be encountered in the dreams of others, something which, from my own dreadful experience, I knew to be wrong. However, I did not give in to despair and continued on my brave quest to..."

As boastfully as the knight dismissed that information, this was the first time any text had mentioned that the mære could not be found in one's own dream. Reason enough to check out the book in question, Merlin thought. He looked around, but the title was nowhere to be found. He rose and began looking through the shelves. He was pretty sure he had caught every book with 'dream' in its title, but he didn't put it past his exhausted eyes to have overlooked something. No matter how carefully he looked, the object of desire was nowhere to be found.

He groaned once more. Now he would have to ask Geoffrey about it and listen to endless lectures about how young people nowadays should learn to fend for themselves and how even peasants at least understood the basics of archiving, unlike Merlin. Never mind most of them didn't know how to read. If he was really unlucky the book had been classified as potentially corrupting and then he would have to make up some excuse why he absolutely needed to see it. Somehow he suspected that telling the librarian that he needed to research a mythical creature that a dragon had told him about so that he could kill it with his magic wouldn't fare all that well.

Still, what must be done, must be done. Merlin strolled down to the librarian's desk, not without taking one or two (or rather more) wrong turns along the way.

The man with the oversized belly was sitting at his usual place, writing something in a journal. He ignored the approaching Merlin, but the young man was certain that was only pretending. He was probably keeping a jealous watch on every single one of his movements.

"Excuse me," he said, positioning himself in front of the desk. No reaction. Well, that was something new. Usually he would have gotten a stern glance at least.

"Excuse me..." he repeated louder. Geoffrey let out an exasperated sigh and looked at Merlin over the rim of his monocle.

"Young man, this is a library, not a drawing room," he said in a piqued voice. Disapproval dripped from every syllable.

"I know. I'm looking for a book," Merlin replied, keeping his tone as polite as possible. The librarian sighed again.

"Some day you will realise that it is essential for every man to know the basics of archiving and then you will stop pestering me about every single book you need." Ah, there we go, thought Merlin. The obligatory archiving speech.

"Yes, I will do my best. But for now I'll rely on your knowledge. I'm looking for the "Almanac of Terrors". Surely you know where I can find that?"

Geoffrey cocked an eyebrow at him.

"What would you need that for?" he asked suspiciously.

"Oh, I just had this dream last night and it was really odd, so I wanted to look it up," Merlin lied quickly. He had made up that excuse while he was wandering through the long halls of the library. Not lost, just a little confused, he assured himself.

"If that is the case, you would fare better with 'A Brief Guide to Dreamology,' young man. Also it does no good to keep your head in the clouds. You should focus on improving your performance in daily life," the librarian reprimanded him.

"Gaius always says that our dreams are a door to our subconscious and that it is important to know oneself to do good work," countered Merlin, quite proud of his elaborate scheme. Geoffrey was an old friend of Gaius' and respected the physicians opinions. Again a disapproving sigh, but the old man rose from his place and rummaged through a thick book.

"It's in the Mythology Section," he finally said.

"Yes, I thought so, but I couldn't find it anywhere. Is there a possibility of it having been displaced?" asked Merlin. Geoffrey gave him a look that clearly told him that the insinuation was not appreciated.

"I do not allow displacement in my library. If the book is not in the shelf, it must be among the returned books," commented the librarian. He went to a cart with stacks of books on it and skimmed through the titles.

"Ah, here it is. This is odd," he mumbled while pulling out a thick volume. One of the stacks swayed dangerously.

"What is?" Merlin threw a glance at the leather-bound book in the other man's hand.

"This is one of the books Gaius was looking at yesterday," replied Geoffrey. He gave Merlin another suspicious glance. The young man's heart sped up. If Gaius had been looking at this book, he must be on the right track. Maybe the physician had already found the answer before succumbing to the illness.

"Yes, I told him about the dream and he was going to look it up for me," Merlin improvised.

"I thought you had the dream last night?" asked Geoffrey, looking indignant. And it had been going so well, too, Merlin sighed internally.

"Well, er, I had the dream more than once. That's why I'm so interested in it..." he muttered. He felt his ears glowing. Not for the first time he wished those faultless indicators of his lying were not quite as big. 

"Did you now?" The librarian didn't look convinced, but after a while he handed Merlin the book.

"Be careful with it. It's very valuable. If you ruin it, you'll have to pay for it and your entire life won't be enough," he warned.

"I'm always careful," Merlin grinned as he took the book. Geoffrey scoffed. Merlin's perpetual clumsiness was not exactly Camelot's best kept secret.

Merlin, as soon as he had found a quiet place to sit down, leafed through the pages with anxious hands. His gut told him that he was close. Finally, he found what he was looking for.

"The Maere: A mythological creature that induces nightmares to feed of its victims souls. Supposed to have been created by the horrors of the first war waged by men, it art one of the oldest monsters to haunt the human mind. When it takes possession of a man, it is believed to sit on its victim's chest and suck them dry. Symptoms of possession will be night terrors and fatigue during the waking hours as well as bodily harm received in the sleep. In the most severe of cases, those who have been singled out by the Maere will fall into a deep sleep, from which they cannot be roused until their death..."

That was it. Those were exactly the symptoms the citizens of Camelot were exhibiting. With growing excitement Merlin read on.

"Under ordinary circumstances, the Maere will affect only a few victims at one time and rarely will the possession bear lethal consequences. However, if summoned by a Master of Dreams or their a-kin, its powers may increase greatly and such a curse once cast may call down a plague on an entire land..."

Merlin's heart skipped a few beats. Summoned by a Master of Dreams? The dragon had not mentioned any of this. Seriously, that guy enjoyed being cryptic way too much. What could possibly be so difficult about giving clear and, most of all, complete information? But the pressing issue was really: What sorcerer would cast such a curse on Camelot? Though, strike that question. It would probably be more appropriate to ask what sorcerer would not, if it was in their power.

"A Master of Dreams may communicate and subdue a Maere in in the Realm of Dreams, no contact with the beast on the physical plane is required. Once a contract has been forged by incantation, the bond can only be broken by either the death of the sorcerer or the beast itself. Such is the only way to bring about the end of an existing curse."

Now the book was getting to the point. It would take too long to find the sorcerer, Merlin guessed. They had no clue pertaining to their identity.

Unfortunately, the better part of the following paragraphs was blotted by spots of dark liquid. Merlin's heart tightened when he realised that it must be blood. Gaius' blood.

"To vanquish a Maere, one must kill it in the physical realm...an...Dreams...thin the h...

The …..can only be..., so that the... ...derer...must be requested... To destroy the physical form, a blade of pure iron is needed. Once the beast is mortally wounded, one must cut off...d and rem...sks...

The Maere inhab..."

Merlin put the book down. The damage was too great. What crucial information this paragraphs contained was completely obscured by the blood-stains. Merlin glanced around. Maybe he could remove some of the blood. He did not see anybody. He held a hand over the smudged passages and searched for the right words in his mind.

"_Edníwe_," he muttered quietly with a golden flash of his eyes. Nothing happened. He tried again, a little louder. Still nothing. Maybe with a different spell.

"_álýme þá gecwideu_," he whispered. But no matter how often he tried or which words he used, it wouldn't work. The book was ruined beyond repair. There was only one other option left. He grabbed the book and rushed back to the front desk, earning himself another reproachful glare by Geoffrey. That moment though, he didn't really care.

"This page, it's blotted," he panted, showing the book to the librarian, and after an accusing look, "it wasn't me."

Geoffrey looked at the page in question and furrowed his brow.

"Is there another copy?" Merlin asked breathlessly. The librarian cocked an eyebrow at him.

"You are researching your dream?" he asked dubiously. However, Merlin was not in the state to make up any further excuses and brushed the comment off with a wave of his hand.

"It's really important that I read this part. Is there another copy or not?" Geoffrey was visibly taken aback by the rude address but nonetheless decided to deign to reply.

"This is a very old book. There is no second copy..."

Merlin's knees almost gave way when he heard those words. He was so close to finding the solution, it couldn't possibly be that all would end here. He felt cold sweat on his forehead.

"...in this library. However, I believe that just one more exemplar survived through the centuries."

Merlin's stomach leapt. Hope.

"Where can I find it?" he gasped, almost choking on the words in his excitement.

"Young man, pace yourself. As far as I know, it was acquired by Sir Calvin of Hadroth for his private collection a couple of years ago. He's a very studious man who holds books in high regard, unlike certain people," Geoffrey replied in an icy tone.

"And where does Sir Calvin live?" Merlin pressed on.

"He resides in his ancestral home in the town of Hadrot at the border of Camelot."

Merlin could have kissed the old man but he restrained himself. Instead, he shouted an enthusiastic "Thank you!" and rushed out of the library. All hope was not lost. He would just have to journey to Hadrot, retrieve the book and then he could devise a scheme to save Camelot. That was what he was here for after all. If one was to believe the Great Dragon, anyway.

As he sped down the hall, he almost jumped with excitement. However, his elation was dampened by a very obnoxious and loud growling of his stomach. He had not eaten anything except for a piece of bread in the morning and now that a good portion of his anxiety had gone and the day drew to a close, his body demanded his attention. Since he needed time to ponder an excuse for Arthur, he decided that he just as well might do that in the kitchen over an extremely belated supper. The cook had taken a liking to the servant and always kept a little treat for him around.

/~/

Gwen placed a gentle arm around Arthur's shoulder as she sat beside him in the murky room. Ever since the king had been brought to his chambers, Arthur had not uttered a single world, just continued to stare at his father's motionless figure lying on the bed. Iestyn had come and examined Uther, confirming their worst fears. All colour had drained from the prince's face when he heard the physicians final conclusion, his lips had pressed tightly together in a thin line and she, who had been close enough to touch him, had felt his tremble.

But he had not cried, just sunk down on a bench at his father's bedside and continued to sit there as the last rays of the sun disappeared beyond the horizon and the torches were lit all over the castle. Not in this room, however. A single candle on the table threw a flickering light into the otherwise dark space, elongating the shadows and breathing a ghostly life into them as the wavered in the weak gleam.

Gwen's heart ached as she thought of what Arthur must be going through, so soon after his father had slowly begun to recuperate from Morgana's vicious attack on his mind. Even though she had not seen much of him these past weeks, when the king had returned from his self-imposed seclusion in his chambers, Arthur's steps had regained much of their determination - his shoulders, which had slumped under the burden placed upon him, had finally straightened. The grim expression, which had not left his face ever since the defeat of the immortal army and drawn premature lines on his brow, had vanished and his eyes had caught a determined and hopeful spark.

Now it was all gone. Gwen remembered the time her own father had died. The time after his execution had been horrible. For weeks she had cried herself to sleep and the days had passed in a haze of grief. But what had been even worse than the certainty of his death, of his eternal parting from her life, had been the hours of breathless, excruciating waiting for his execution. She had been tormented by the dread of his impeding death and every glimpse of hope had only served to cast her even further down into that bottomless pit of fear and helplessness. It had been torture and it was exactly what Arthur must feel right now, sitting at his father's bedside and waiting, powerless to do anything to help him.

She had violently repressed her own tears as she waked beside him, knowing that her falling apart would only make matters worse.

"Arthur," she whispered finally. She received no reaction. "You need to eat something." The prince's hand, which she held in her own, was as cold and motionless. A tray of food left untouched was sitting on the table in the middle of the chamber. She had left the prince only for a brief while to get it from the kitchen, since there had been no trace of Merlin all evening.

She felt a bit of unfamiliar anger rise in her. Where was he at such a time? But she forced it back down to where it came from. She could very well imagine that he was the same as Arthur, sitting at Gaius' bedside. The old physician was like a father to him and his illness must affect her friend in the same fashion as Arthur. She wished she could split herself in two.

Arthur's hand stirred a little and pressed hers. She felt him shuddering beside her. Nobody had dared to enter since the physician left and the fire had not been lit. As the night had fallen, the last bit of warmth had been drained from the chamber and now there was nothing left to surround the but the cold stonewalls.

Gwen rose and picked a jacket from her basket to place it around Arthur's shoulders. She was supposed to mend it for Lancelot, but she figured he wouldn't mind if it was employed in this manner for one evening. The young woman gently stroked his cheek. It was a familiar gesture, but now with his face as cold as the walls surrounding them, it felt strangely alien.

"You need to eat, just a little bit," she repeated. She had not wanted any food when her father had been awaiting his execution either, but she knew exactly how draining the anxiety was.

Several more minutes passed, before the prince finally nodded. She went over to the tray and brought Arthur a plate with some bread and cheese on it. There were more elaborate dishes, but she doubted he had the energy to eat them. He took a bite, then the hand holding the bread fell back onto his knees limply.

"You should go," he finally whispered. Her insides turned icy at the sound of his hoarse voice, so toneless.

"I'll stay as long as you need me," she replied. His grip around her hand tightened briefly, only to let go completely soon after.

"I..." he started, his face turned away from her, "I can't..." His voice broke. She understood. She felt the tears rise in her eyes as she stood up. Arthur did not want to be in her company right now. He could not let go in front of her, not now anyway. It was painful, but she understood.

"If you need me, I'll stay in the castle tonight," she said quietly as she picked up the tray and with a last glance at the motionless figure by the bed, she left the chamber.

Outside she drew a shaky breath. Her mind was numb but somewhere, in a corner, she felt a little hope stirring. There was one person who could force Arthur to be completely himself. She felt a slight pinch of jealousy at the thought. Why couldn't it be her? But she banished the ugly little impulse to the back of her mind. It couldn't be her, because she was important to Arthur. He, who had been raised his whole life to impress other people, to keep his emotions in check when around important people, could not fall apart in front of her. Their mutual affection and regard for each other was the one thing that kept him from giving in to grief in her presence.

That was not to say that he didn't hold Merlin in high regard. It was just that he had not yet consciously realised the depth of their friendship while he had completely acknowledged his love for Gwen.

Her mind knew all that and it analysed the situation completely by itself. For Arthur to come out of this emotional petrification, she needed to find Merlin.

Thus, she stepped by Gaius' chambers on her way down to the kitchen. She was surprised when the only people to be found there were the sleeping Gaius and Iestyn. The old physician looked up from a book at her entrance.

"Hello there," he greeted her in a voice too cheery for the dire situation. She returned the courtesy however and asked about Gaius' condition.

"No change there, bonny. The old chap's not waking up. But he hasn't got any further injuries either," he replied.

"Have you seen Merlin?" she asked, peering around the room. There was indeed no trace of her friend.

"No, not the whole day. He's run off to somewhere," he answered. She nodded and bid her goodbyes. Where could Merlin possibly have gone at a time like this? A bit of soup spilled on the tray in her hands that she had completely forgotten while thinking about Arthur. Musing about Merlin's whereabouts she made her way to the kitchen. When she entered, all of her questions were answered. There, at one of the long tables he sat, breathing, rather than eating, some soup.

/~/

"Merlin?" At the sound of the familiar voice the the young man looked up and his eyes brightened at the sight of his friend.

"Gwen! I was just doing some research in the library," he answered with a small grin. He tried to keep his tone casual, but it came out strained.

"Research? Shouldn't you be with Arthur?" she ventured, somewhat irritated.

"Oh, no, he gave me the day off. Probably. I think," he replied. To be quite honest, he had no idea what exactly Arthur had said to him in the hall. He could have taken all of his clothes off and done one handed cartwheels for all Merlin knew, since he had been so focused on being a monster that he hadn't actually noticed his surroundings. Though, since the probability of the former was just ever so slightly higher than the latter, he had decided to go with that.

"Then you haven't heard?" Gwen asked, her face showing sincere concern. Merlin, who had started to grin slightly at the thought of a naked Arthur performing circus-tricks in the castle's halls, instantly snapped back to reality. 

"Haven't heard what?" he inquired, now serious. She looked as if somebody had died. The thought of Gaius shot through his head but he dismissed it. If it was Gaius, there was no reason for her to think he should be with Arthur.

"Uther succumbed to the illness..." the seamstress answered in a soft voice. Merlin jumped up.

"What? Are you certain?" he asked, "But he took the remedy!" This wasn't supposed to happen.

"Iestyn believes that he had already been infected."

"Good God. How's Arthur?"

"As you would expect. A mess. Though he tries to hide it," she replied, still looking at him as if he had at least three heads.

"I see." Merlin stood in the middle of the room, not quite sure what to do with himself. One part of him wanted to run off and check on his friend, the other knew that he could not look at his grief and give comfort while he had almost wished for exactly something like that to happen. Hell, for a while there he would have done it to Uther himself. Torn between his options, neither of them plausible, he sat down. Gwen stared at him disbelievingly and after a short pause took a seat across the table.

"Merlin, what is going on between the two of you?" she asked carefully. Before, in the lower town, Arthur had definitely acted odd when she asked about Merlin, and now her friend was acting even stranger. She knew that the two of them bickered and fought like an old married couple, but however singular their relationship was, it was one of mutual friendship.

"Nothing." Merlin answered, showing unusual interest in the stone-floor. The memories of the incident earlier were surfacing with all their might.

"Did he do something?" she pressed further. "Look, I know he can sometimes be a..." she paused, looking for the right words.

"A royal clot-pole?" Merlin offered. The shadow of a smile flew over her face. If Merlin was still joking, then maybe it wasn't all that bad.

"Well, yes. But you know, even though he probably regrets it, he won't apologise, his pride wont allow him to. So if he went over the top, you'll have to take the first step..." She was most definitely babbling. Merlin's face had assumed a dark expression she had never seen on his face before as she went on and his unusual silence made her nervous.

"It's not like that..." Merlin said, still awarding the floor his undivided attention.

"Did he pour water on you again?" she asked suddenly. Arthur had told her that Merlin had been really mad when he did that once, though she couldn't quite fathom why. It wasn't exactly nice, but it was to be expected with the prince. She had always figured that he had probably done something else to offend Merlin and not realised it. He was very thick that way sometimes. But since she lacked any other ideas, she decided to go with it.

Merlin shot her a doubtful glance. "Why would he do that? No..." he sighed and buried his head in his hands.

"Then what is it?" Gwen felt that her patience, which she had quite the unusual amount of, was beginning to run out. Arthur was distraught and here Merlin was acting as if he couldn't care less. What could the prince have possibly done that was this bad?

"It wasn't Arthur...It was me," Merlin finally mumbled to his hands.

"Merlin, I'm sure whatever you did, right now he won't care about it."

"No, you don't understand. I did something really horrible. Something absolutely unforgivable."

"I don't think that there's anything you can do that is unforgivable. You're a good friend and even he wouldn't admit to it if you put a sword to his chest, Arthur knows that."

"Not this time. He doesn't even know the whole of it...I did something and then I did something else which he doesn't know about and that he won't ever...he can't forgive me, especially now...or, well, I didn't actually do anything, but I thought about doing it...and the one thing that I did was..." Merlin's voice was trembling.

"I don't quite understand..." Gwen started.

"Neither do I, really," Merlin interrupted her, "it just somehow became this mess..."

"...but right now, Arthur needs his friend to be there. I don't know what you did or didn't do, but this is not the time for quarrelling," she continued, disregarding his words. It was maybe a little unusual for her to be this resolute, but this needed to be sorted out, lest an irreparable rift should form between the prince and his servant. Merlin, once he came to his senses, would never forgive himself for sitting idly by as Arthur suffered, no matter what he thought he had done. The immense guilt showing on his face worried her and at some point this would warrant further inquiry, but right now it worried her even more that he was acting completely beside himself and that was what needed to be dealt with this instant.

"Wouldn't he much rather have you there?" Merlin asked.

"There are things, unfortunately, that Arthur doesn't seem to be comfortable sharing with me yet. He has too much pride to be vulnerable in my presence and that is precisely what he needs to be right now." Again a little sting somewhere in her heart.

"You can't seriously believe that he'll open up to me! I'm his servant!" Merlin stared at her as if she had lost her mind. Maybe, she mused, she had. These two people were taking the last piece out of her composure. She just had to go and fall in love with a royal prat who had the emotional capacity of a teaspoon and befriend this thick-headed best friend of his. For that, she knew for certain, Merlin was.

"No, probably not," she admitted hesitantly, "but he'll open up to himself at least. Merlin, you're the only person that can force him to be honest to himself. I doubt you have failed to notice that when it is so obvious to everybody else."

Merlin continued to stare at his hands for several minutes. He seemed to be so deep in thought, she jumped a little when he suddenly sprang into action, rushing out the room.

"Gwen," he said, turning in the door, the familiar grin reappearing on his face, "Thank you."

"For what?" she asked, a little surprised.

"For preventing me from making a complete donkey's arse out of myself. Arthur's doing such a good job at it, I'd just lose the contest."

/~/

Merlin banned all feelings of guilt from his mind as he rushed down the halls to the king's chamber. Gwen was right, this was not the time for indulging his bad conscience. Within a matter of minutes he arrived at the door. He didn't stop to knock, he never did, and entered the chamber. The prince was sitting on a bench next to his father's bed.

"Arthur?" he ventured carefully as he approached him in the dim room. Arthur didn't look up, just continued to stare at his father's face. Merlin could see from his tense shoulders and the clenched fists that he was in the process of building walls around his emotions.

Merlin remained standing beside him as time passed. He knew that the prince would not react to anything he said right now. He would have to wait until he had regained enough composure to be able to speak. Finally Arthur moved.

"I can't lose him now," he said, taking the motionless king's hand into his own, "not after..." His voice, which had been briefly steady, broke off. As he raised his head to face Merlin, the young warlock saw that his eyes were reddened from tears he hadn't allow himself to shed. Again he felt a pang of guilt, but he shoved it aside. This wasn't about him and once more he was grateful for his ability to compartmentalise.

"I know," he said quietly, and more decisive: "You won't."

Arthur looked a little surprised at the firmness in his servant's voice. His glance wandered back to his father's figure and his shoulder's slumped a little.

Master and servant remained in silence until a sharp knock ripped them out of their musings. Iestyn limped into the room carrying a tray with several instruments and a bowl on it.

"Ah, Merlin. Where did you run off to, lad? Haven't seen you all day long. You sure you don't have a lass stashed away somewhere?" he asked, with a small smile. Merlin gave him a blank stare. This man's utter lack for propriety in just about any situation was truly amazing.

"And one bonny face she must have, that lass of yours, if she keeps you occupied for a whole day while the party is going on out here..." the physician continued on, either not noticing or choosing to ignore the looks of bewilderment and depreciation Merlin and Arthur were giving him respectively.

A short but very unsavoury silence followed during which Iestyn blinked around the room as if he wasn't aware of any wrong doing. Merlin was the first to react by clearing his throat and shooting a telling glance between the king and his son. Iestyn however didn't seem to catch on.

"So how's sleeping beauty faring?" he asked, winking. Arthur regarded him with a look with which one would usually watch a cockroach crawl from under a rock. If the situation hadn't been so completely awkward and the occasion so sad, Merlin would have laughed. There was the old man, happily talking away and displaying the bedside manner of a rock - a very chatty rock - while placing the tray on Uther's bedside table and the prince, staring at him as if he had just pulled a dead rabbit out of his hat.

The young warlock cleared his throat again and subtly gestured at Arthur, whom he suspected was pondering the best method of beheading the old man. Iestyn raised an eyebrow.

"Are you having spasms, lad? Maybe not enough minerals in your food. I have this potion that..." he asked and continued on to tell them all about the remedy, closing with "young people nowadays just don't eat properly. Nasty business, that it is indeed."

Merlin let out an exasperated sigh. Apparently the only way to prevent Arthur from jumping up and doing serious harm to the old physician was to either explain the precarious situation to the old man or somehow manage to get the prince as far away from him as possible before it was too late.

Judging from experience, the former was next to impossible, so Merlin began to wreck his mind for a believable pretence under which Arthur would be willing to leave his father's side. However, his predicament was alleviated when the old man took care of it himself.

"Sorry, lad, I need to examine your father here and try to get him to eat something. As much as I appreciate anybody taking interest in my work, it'd be easier for me if I was alone."

Arthur seemed to hesitate - and Merlin couldn't blame him for doubting the physicians mental fitness at this point, he was getting there himself - but finally he rose and turned for the door.

"I will personally see to your punishment if any harm should come to my father," he threatened.

"Then I will personally see to it that it doesn't happen," the old man answered smiling. Before Merlin could stir from his place to follow Arthur out the door, Iestyn turned to him.

"Got a temper that one, but too much pride, doesn't he? Have to take their mind of things such as this with those types, or they'll keep it all inside till they explode," he said winking good naturedly and then proceeded to take up one of his shining instruments.

"No good it will do this country, an exploded Crown Prince, now will it?" he mumbled to himself. Merlin muttered something to excuse himself and ran after Arthur. He caught up to him in the hall. The prince's steps conveyed that he was boiling. However, all of the ominous tenseness had disappeared from his body, replaced with indignation over the impropriety of the physician's behaviour. As Merlin slowed his steps to match his master's, he couldn't help but dimly suspect that the old man was not remotely as thick as he had appeared to be.

/~/

When they arrived in Arthur's chambers, the prince threw his jacket on the bed and began pacing the room like a caged griffin. Which was a worrisome mental image in itself, so Merlin carefully positioned himself next to the door. One must leave their exits open.

"I need to do something," Arthur finally said after a while of walking up and down, his tone regaining its characteristic determination.

"I know," Merlin said. Five steps into the room. Heel-turn.

"I need to find a way to cure this illness," Five steps to the window. Finger through hair.

"I know," Merlin stated again. Heel-turn. Five steps back into the room. Heel-turn. Arms behind back.

"If it's indeed an enchantment, like Iestyn suspects, I need to find the source and stop it," Five steps to the window. Heel-turn. Five steps into the room.

"I know." Arched eyebrow. Five more steps into the room.

"You seem to know quite a lot of things all of a sudden, Merlin." Amused glance.

"Yes, it's been known to happen from time to time." Merlin replied dryly, even though he almost broke out in cheers when he heard the familiar mock condescension in the prince's voice. However, the reaction might have seemed somewhat inappropriate and Merlin had no desire to imitate Iestyn, so he caught the impulse just in time.

Skulking around in dark rooms just didn't suit Arthur. He was, like Gwen had said, a rough, tough, save the world kind of guy. And if he was going to save the world, which he would, as the dragon had told Merlin so many times, there was really no reason why he should stop at his father.

"Your newly acquired wisdom wouldn't by any chance extend to the knowledge of how I'll manage to do that?" Heel-turn. Five-steps to the window.

"Well, actually, about that" the warlock started, "I just might have found something..."

Heel-turn. Stop.

/~/

_Thanks for reading! I hope you liked it and if you did or didn't, please click the button that says "Review". Make me happy in this stressful time._

_Cheers, C._

_**Next time:**__ Merlin and Arthur make out in front of an unconscious Uther and a flabbergasted Gwen. No! Don't run away! I'm kidding! _

_Ehem, __**Next time:**__ We finally leave Camelot and see some action._


	6. Road Trap

_So, to compensate for the long wait before, an extra-early update. Which is why I'm not gonna spend much time ranting here. Just know this: I'm feeling very warm and fuzzy. You know why? Er, no, not because my radiator is on max and not because I'm on my second beer (well, maybe those are factors, too). No, but really: It's your reviews. You made me a very happy person._

_**Nobleignominy**__ also made me a very happy person and contributed to your happiness (hopefully) buy being my beta for this chapter. Thank you!_

/~/

Chapter 6: Road Trap

Arthur cleared his throat as he watched what was left of his knights take their seats in the large hall. Again he was reminded that, for all intents and purposes, a round table was much more convenient for strategic planning.

Lancelot had taken Sir Leon's usual place at Arthur's right side, looking a little dumbfounded at the unusual perspective from head of the table. He was shifting uncomfortably in his seat and stealing glances at Merlin behind Arthur's back. The prince very well imagined the idiotically encouraging grin his servant sent the young knight in response and rolled his eyes.

What was it about Merlin that made someone like Lancelot turn to him for support? Arthur, to his deep horror and mortification, had caught _himself_ feeling heartened after a couple of impertinent words from his manservant more than once. Such as the previous evening, when Merlin had appeared in his father's chambers, keeping him silent company. For some reason, when he had told Arthur that he wouldn't lose his father just like that, the prince had been surprised but none the less, he had instantly been put at ease by those simple words. He sometimes got the notion that Merlin seemed to have some kind of deeper knowledge of what was going on around him, a deeper knowledge than even Arthur had. Which, to be quite honest, was somewhat frustrating because he was but a servant and Arthur was the bloody Crown Prince of Camelot.

When all the knights and advisories had taken their seats, Arthur cleared his throat and the entire room instantly fell silent. Having thus ensured the attention of all present he proceeded to rise from his seat and addressed them.

"I am sure that by now everyone in this room is aware of the illness spreading in Camelot," he started. All eyes were resting on him.

"Many of our people and your comrades have fallen prey to it. My father, your king, has also succumbed to the illness." A quiet murmur rose. It didn't surprise Arthur. Information on the king's condition had been contained so as to not spread panic.

"Our land is in serious peril. If we let this continue, our population will be decimated and the kingdom will be considerably weakened." Again whispers.

"Fortunately, the physician Iestyn has succeeded in creating an antidote to prevent the infection from spreading and has isolated the origin of the illness." This time there was no reaction. This wasn't news to anybody who had been at the council the previous day and as such things must, the reports had spread throughout the castle.

"As we have feared, the malady is indeed the result of magic. My father, before falling ill, ordered a purge to find the sorcerer responsible and neutralise the threat. However," Arthur looked around the room with a furrowed brow, "in light of recent discoveries, which the king was not privy to, I have decided to abandon this course of action."

Surprised whispers and startled glances were thrown across the hall. Arthur waited patiently until it quieted down.

"We have discovered that the source of the illness lies in a mythical being. If the creature dies, those who are sick will be restored to full health and Camelot will be saved. As such, I will dispatch a search party to find and kill it." More whispers and nods of approval.

"The search party will consist of myself and my servant Merlin. I will not take anybody else with me." At this, the whispers rose to a loud chatter. A knight to his left was shaking his head furiously.

"As the situation is right now, we do not know how many people have already been infected before they received the remedy and our ranks have been severely weakened. Camelot is vulnerable to attacks by our enemies. It is of the utmost importance we do not further diminish our defences by removing men who are fit for action. On the other hand, the creature in question is powerful and to defeat it, an experienced warrior will be necessary. The physician Iestyn has been examining all of you since yesterday, as you will have noticed, and provided me a list of people that are least likely to be infected." Once more there were whispers, but Arthur raised his hand to quiet them down.

"I will not divulge this information, because I feel that it would cause unnecessary anxiety. However, I have assessed the abilities of those on that list and decided that the one most likely to succeed in this quest is me."

Arthur could literally feel Merlin roll his eyes behind his back. He would be certain to hear one comment or other on his arrogance later on. None of the others batted an eyelash at that information. Arthur was, without any doubt, the most versatile and enduring of his knights - using nimbleness where he lacked strength. When facing an unknown enemy, he was the best choice. The only problem was that with him gone, the kingdom was essentially leaderless. He had pondered the issue and a tiny voice in his head had told him that it might be wiser to send Lancelot, who displayed similar traits, or Sir Lionel, who had grown up close to the border of Mercia and had proven himself to be every bit as resourceful as the prince. However, quite frankly, he could not stand the thought of waiting idly in town while his father's life hung in the balance. He knew it wasn't entirely rational, but everything in him had revolted against a different decision. In the end, his arguments were sound enough. And where they didn't hold, he had resolved to ignore.

"As for matters in Camelot, I have decided the following. In my absence I shall transfer the temporary power of Regent to the Duke of Holstone, who has been a trusted advisor to my father for over twenty years and knows as much of the state's affairs as I do. I trust that he will perform his duties admirably."

This was, for all intents and purposes, a dangerous move. Many a king had been overthrown by a Regent hungry for power. Nonetheless, Arthur had known the Duke of Holstone (Sir Godehart, as he was called in his father's inner circle) since he was but an infant and he knew that his father placed complete trust in the man. Or as much trust as his father could place in anyone, at any rate. When Arthur was too young to substitute for the king, Sir Godehart had more than once acted as Regent when his father needed to leave the kingdom.

Sir Godehart, an old, frail looking man in dark blue robes rose from his seat and bowed deeply.

"I am greatly honoured, Sire, and swear to perform my duties as I believe the king or you would want me to," he said in a voice as tenuous as his thinning hair. Nobody in the hall was deceived by his feeble appearance, though. All present knew him to be a stern and wise man, whose council was held in the highest regard by Uther and who had strong supporters amongst the nobles of the country.

"Thank you, Sir Godehart." Arthur returned the bow briefly and proceeded, "Furthermore, since the Head-Knight Sir Leon has unfortunately also succumbed to the malady, I have decided to appoint Sir Lancelot to hold military command and for Sir Gwaine to be his second in command."

At that, many of the knights could not restrain themselves. A discontent murmur went through the crowd. This was an outrage. The two men in question had barely been raised to knighthood two months ago. Nobody had actually seen them in real combat and the worst of it, they were commoners. For more experienced knights with much less questionable ancestry to be passed over in their favour was unheard of. The voices grew louder and increasingly heated as Lancelot, who had been listening attentively to the speech coloured violently and wished that Merlin would magically transport him to another kingdom or at least let him sink into the ground. Since nothing indicated that his friend had any such kind intentions, Lancelot resolved to do the next best thing: he sank deep into his seat.

Since the commotion did not show any signs of dying down on its own, Arthur decided to slam his fist on the table. He knew this appointment was more than scandalous and he needed to demonstrate absolute resolve.

"I will not allow any argument on this matter," he announced in a firm voice. "I have my reasons for this decision and you will accept it." Reasons being that barely any of the knights on his list had met the qualifications and those who did, he didn't trust much further than he could throw them. Lancelot on the other hand shown immense strategic insight and he trusted him completely. It wasn't the ideal situation but with Sir Leon not available, he did not have any other choice. As for Gwaine, he did not know himself what the devil had befallen him. He just felt that of all the other choices the rogue would play best with Lancelot. The only issue, he noticed suddenly, was that Gwaine was not actually _present_. Arthur cast an indignant glance in the room. Indeed, the knight was nowhere to be seen. He looked at Lancelot with an inquiringly raised eyebrow.

"Where is Gwaine?" he muttered out of the corner of his mouth. Lancelot, who was still busy trying to get in touch with his hidden magical abilities, winced.

"Yesterday, after the examination, he was sent out with a patrol to one of the outlying villages..." he started. Arthur's frown grew deeper.

"And the patrol has not yet returned?" he asked, dreading the answer.

"No, the patrol has returned...without Gwaine..." Lancelot replied, awarding a spot on the table his full attention.

"Withou...for Heaven's sake, why?" asked Arthur.

"The knights said he told them to ride ahead because he had further investigations to do," Lancelot said. Merlin behind the prince's back could barely suppress a snicker. He could very well imagine where that investigation would lead. Into a shady tavern or up a local beauty's skirt, preferably- and most likely- both. The young knight had been on his idea of best behaviour for the past two months. It had been but a question of when until all the pent up mischief led to something like this. He could really have picked a better time though. Suffice to say, Arthur was not the least bit amused and Gwaine would probably have to pencil a couple of stints in the stocks into his schedule or relieve Merlin of stable-duty when he resurfaced. Well, every cloud has a silver lining.

The prince groaned. His thoughts had pretty much gone in the same direction as Merlin's and now his mind raced how to gloss over this embarrassment. One thing he knew for certain, Gwaine would suffer for this. He cleared his throat.

"As I just have been informed, Sir Gwaine has not yet returned from a _reconnaissance_ assignment and is not expected back for a couple of days." Of that much Arthur was sure. "As such, Sir Lionel will take his place."

Sir Lionel was in every single way better qualified than Gwaine, except for the fact that he hated Lancelot, ardently so. However, there was no option left. At least the appointment of Lionel would probably appease the more status conscious nobles - which happened to be all of them.

Indeed, these words seemed to have a soothing effect. A couple of knights at the rear end threw amused glances at one another and Arthur suspected that they had been part of Gwaine's patrol. The prince sighed. Somebody was definitely going to reek of dung for a long time. Not that it would make much of a difference.

After he had settled a couple of other pressing issues, such as the careful monitoring of the malady's progress and the organisation of medical personnel, Arthur finished his address with an announcement that he and Merlin were to leave within the hour. He saw Merlin cringe at those words.

He had left him hardly any time to pack and the servant voiced his discontent in many colourful words as he followed him to his chambers. Nonetheless, Arthur could not help but notice a certain apprehension about the young man and he found himself unable to entertain their usual banter. For one, his mind was occupied with his father's and Camelot's potentially dreadful future and secondly, he could not quite forget the way Merlin had acted around him the past two days. He felt like he was treading on thin ice, like they were under a temporary truce brought upon by the king's condition. He was not only still concerned about what had happened, slowly he felt anger rise up in him. Merlin had a way of getting him to reveal his deepest secrets, yet he did not seem to trust him enough to confide in him. He felt like he was constantly getting the shorter end of the stick and he found it irritating and unfair.

While Merlin proceeded to throw the prince's possessions carelessly about the room, Arthur focused on studying the map. Hadrot was, under the best of travelling conditions, almost a week's ride from Camelot and that was not accounting for various interferences along the way. It was autumn and the weather was rapidly declining. Two weeks ago they had already experienced the first storm and were than likely to come upon a second within the next few days. While Arthur himself could travel under any condition, the roads were likely to be muddy and that would affect the horses greatly. It was also unwise to try and cross a thunder-storm in unknown terrain because visibility was low and some parts of the route seemed more than unsavoury. Finally he decided on a slightly slanted route, which would take them through woodland for the better part of the journey but had enough villages along the way for them to be able to rest or, if such need should arise, replace their horses. He briefly asked himself whether anybody would still be alive when they accomplished their mission. Worst case scenario, they would arrive in Hadrot and find that the Maere dwelt in an area at the opposite end of the country - or beyond. He banned the thought from his mind. It was their best shot, no matter how you looked at it. And Iestyn had told him that there were ways to buy them some time.

While Merlin was packing his own things and getting the horses ready, Arthur paid one last visit to his father. The king's condition had not changed during the night. The prince gently stroked his father's cool hand. 

"I'm going to find this Maere and kill it, you'll see," he whispered, "You just hang in there." With a last glance at his father's pale face he left the room and descended the stairs leading to the courtyard. Merlin was already there, strapping some bags to the saddle of Arthur's horse, chatting merrily with Gwen.

When they noticed him approaching, the seamstress's eyes lit up. Arthur felt tenderness rise up in him as he remembered how she had sat with him the previous evening.

"Arthur," she said when he had reached them, "How is the king?"

"No change. I trust you will look after him in my absence?" he asked. Iestyn may be a capable physician, but Arthur didn't quite trust him. Guinevere smiled.

"Of course." She took his hand in hers. "You will be careful, won't you?" she asked quietly, her voice quivering a little. He placed a hand under her chin and raised her head up.

"I'm always careful, don't you know?" he said. She chuckled. His recklessness was no secret.

"Just try to come back in one piece. One that is alive, preferably." This time he smiled and bent down to kiss her. Several people around them snickered.

"Shall I go and be...in the...or...somewhere else then?" Merlin asked, probably grinning widely from one ear to the other. Arthur, still emerged in their kiss, swatted at him like one would usually at a fly, but after some moments parted from Guinevere's lips. She was blushing a little but smiling. His hand lingered in hers for another second, then he pressed it warmly.

"Take care of yourself, too," he said.

"I will. And Elyan and Lancelot are here, too," she replied. He nodded curtly to the two knights. Elyan's expression was somewhere between pride and brotherly scorn at seeing his sister kissed in front of him. Lancelot's face did not reveal any of his thoughts.

Arthur, who felt that if they didn't leave now, he would have serious trouble parting from Gwen, mounted his horse. Merlin was still chatting with Lancelot. The prince frowned.

"Merlin," he said, "do you wish to walk?" The servant grinned again and hugged Gwen, whispering something in her ear which made her laugh. Arthur furrowed his brow and Merlin scrambled clumsily onto his horse. How he still had not learned the art of riding after four years in Arthur's services, the prince failed to understand.

"Shall we be off then, your royal Impatience?" Merlin asked. Arthur decided that a response was beneath him and tugged at his reigns. The obedient animal beneath him started to move. Gaining speed rapidly they rode down the steep road into the lower town, passed the outlying houses and soon found themselves in wide fields, leaving behind those they cared about.

/~/

They had spent three nights on the road already and the journey was progressing slower than Arthur had hoped. On the second day they had been surprised by a severe storm and had been forced to take refuge because the horses were close to panicking. It had cost them almost half a day. Merlin, who had at first made weak attempts at bickering, had fallen into unusual silence. To be quite honest, it somewhat crept Arthur out, but he could not find a topic for conversation other than the situation in Camelot and that wasn't the most entertaining of issues. Thus, they kept each other silent company.

Sometimes Merlin would open his mouth as if he wanted to say something but instantly close it and returned to brooding. Once, when Merlin had been on lookout, Arthur had woken up to find him leaning against a tree with closed eyes, muttering something under his breath, words that sounded alien. Arthur had thrown something at him and told him to not sleep on watch-duty or he'd throw him to the bandits first thing in the morning. His servant had stared at him as if he was the devil and not argued.

They were now passing through thick woodland. It was still early in the evening, but because of the way the clouds blocked the sun, dusk had already set in. Underneath the treetops, visibility was just good enough to make out the road, but it was impossible to see anything beyond the first line of trees. Having slept outside for two consecutive nights, they were chilled to the bone and as most of their rations had fallen victim to the rain, their bellies were quite empty and not shy in complaining about it. However, this evening they would be able to stop in a small village along the way and replenish their supplies.

Upon Merlin's stomach growling particularly loudly, Arthur was just about to comment when something swished past his ear. His horse started, reared and buckled. With a piercing cry, it crashed to the ground. Arthur, who had barely the time to hold on for his life, was ripped down with it. The impact pressed all air from his lungs. Gasping for breath he forced his body to react to his command. He managed to raise his head just high enough to see a long, dark arrow sticking out of the animal's flank. It was writhing in agony, threatening to crush Arthur. He struggled desperately to evade the horse's menacing hooves as he fought to get free of the horse's reach. He felt the air stir violently and rolled to the side, just barely evading a second arrow. Scrambling to his feet and clasping the grip of his one-hander tightly, he tried frantically to locate where the attack originated from.

He could see nothing but trees around them. There! A branch snapped behind him. He wheeled around, peering into the shadows. But there was no one to be seen. His body had instinctively assumed a defensive stance, but without his shield he was an easy target for projectile attacks. There was no time, however, to to get it out from underneath the lifeless horse. He realised now it was dead.

Another arrow ripped through the air. Arthur spun around once again. Merlin's horse had been brought down in the same fashion as his. The slight man was having a hard time to evade the animal in its mortal agony. His entire leg was trapped under the heavy body and he could do nothing but cover his head with his arms for weak protection.

Arthur sprinted in his direction but stopped dead in his tracks. Another arrow had missed his foot by millimetres. Damn it, where were they shooting from? The angle was steep, they must be hiding in one of the trees. The prince squinted, desperately trying to find the archer. Merlin cried out as one of the horse's legs hit him across the chest. Arthur had no time to worry about the arrows. His servant was about to be trampled to death.

Sidestepping and ducking to make himself as small a target as possible, he rushed to Merlin's aid, winding his way through the thrashing hoofs. Dust was everywhere, biting in his eyes. He grabbed Merlin by the shoulders and dragged him away from the dying animal, not without receiving a painful kick to his left arm. He had barely managed to pull the young man to his feet, when he pushed him back down, closely escaping another ominous buzzing past his head. His arm was pounding dully.

"Stay down," he bellowed as Merlin attempted to rise. Suddenly there was rustling all around them. Arthur saw several figures appearing out of the woodwork. Adrenalin pumped through his body as he realised the direness of their situation. More than a dozen men were drawing in on them in a circle, like a wolf's pack on the hunt. They were completely surrounded and severely outnumbered.

"Shit," he cursed. Even without having to keep an eye out for Merlin he would probably not be able to defeat them, not with the archer hidden somewhere in the treetops, following his every move. This was a disaster.

Merlin was panting beside him, his face distorting in pain every time he drew a breath. The horse must have gotten him hard, he might have cracked a rib or two. He would probably not be able to outrun the bandits. But there was no other choice.

"Listen," Arthur whispered, keeping a watchful eye on the men's progress. "I'll open an escape route. I need you to run as fast as you can. Can you do that?"

Merlin shook his head. "I'm not leaving you," he gasped.

"Idiot. I'll be right behind you," the prince snapped. This was not the time to argue but Merlin rarely ever paid attention to propriety.

"You ready?" he asked when the men were close enough for him to launch a surprise attack. Merlin bit his lip, but nodded furiously. Arthur did not lose any time. With great agility, he was on his feet. He leapt across what little space there was between him and one of the attackers. The man had barely enough time to give a startled cry. Blood spurted from his mouth. He would be dead before he hit the ground. With a disgusting splotch Arthur withdrew the sword from the man's torso and spun around.

"Merlin! Run!" he yelled. He did not have time to see whether his servant obeyed his command. Out of the corner of his eye he caught a movement. Duck, his instinct screamed at him. Not a second too late. A lethal sword came wheezing right over his head, cutting through the air. God, he was down, his back was turned. He threw one arm around, shifting his centre of gravity. He managed to block the second blow just in time, still cowering on the ground. The impact tore at his ill positioned arm. With a swift movement he liberated his weapon and shot up like a snake. The second man fell to the ground. An awful gurgling sound escaped him as he clutched his pierced throat.

Arthur turned to run but he had barely stirred when two more men were on him, brandishing their weapons. Somewhere behind him he heard metal crush against metal. The sound of something falling. He could not turn to see what was going on. Another blow narrowly missed his shoulder. Somebody was yelling insults. Laughter.

He swung around and hit one of the men hard across the face with his elbow. Blood spurted from his nose, splashing onto Arthur's tunic. He followed up with a strike of his sword while kicking the second attacker simultaneously in the chest. Both went down under the violent blows, but one of them managed to sling his feet around Arthur's legs. He felt a sharp tug as his feet lifted off into the air. His body came down with a painful crash. His head bounced off a rock and he felt dull throbs echoing through it. Dazed, he thrashed around to get his feet free. The other would not let go. Arthur was fighting down panic. Where was Merlin? What were those screams and thuds? And why was it suddenly so damn silent!

Clenching his jaw, Arthur finally managed to hit his opponent on the head with the hilt of his sword. He heard a dreadful crack. This man would not wake up.

He stumbled to his feet and looked around warily. Seven men were lying on the ground in various stages of unconsciousness, which in itself was strange because Arthur was sure he had fought no more than five. One of them was buried under a thick branch. One of those lucky breaks the prince seemed to get every once in a while. He staggered a little. Sweat trickled into his eyes, blurring his vision. His breath was heavy. Somewhere off to his right there were shouts. Arthur briefly froze. Merlin wasn't here. Not on the ground. Not standing either. He listened for the noise and crushed trough the undergrowth in their general direction. The blood froze in his veins when he came to a small clearing and his brain processed the image before his eyes.

Merlin. Surrounded by six men, desperately fending off an attacker. His adversary was a ferocious looking hulk at least twice his size, swinging a gigantic war-hammer. The men around them were cheering the fight on. Merlin was stumbling backwards, his limbs flailing around uncoordinated. Then, suddenly, he tripped. Struggled to keep his balance. Failed.

Arthur could not suppress an anxious cry when his servant fell to the ground. The sword he must have picked up from one of the fallen men flew in a wide arch across the lighting. Finally it struck the ground, still vibrating. Merlin was completely defenceless. The prince forgot all caution and charged at the men. But even as he ran he knew he would not be able to reach the group in time.

And he would not, because suddenly he felt a hard blow to his shoulder, knocking him off his feet and sending him to the ground. Once more all air left Arthur's lungs. He fought for oxygen. Burning waves of pain shot through his body. He felt for his chest with fluttering fingers. Finally, his hand clasped around a shaft sticking out. Before Arthur could think of how inadvisable his actions were, he had ripped it out. His hazed mind only clung to one thought. He had to get to Merlin. Just how bad the idea had been he realised when warm liquid gushed out of the hole in his shoulder and drenched his tunic within a matter of seconds. His limbs, struggling to follow his commands, were leaden. He heard someone scream his name. What a moron, he thought, fighting against the darkness that was threatening to engulf him. He should be worrying about himself. As he fell into unconsciousness for some strange reason he tasted strawberries.

/~/

It had taken Merlin too long to realise what was happening. He had been immersed in thought. He had found one single Wandering spell in his book, which claimed there were many more. The instructions were more than lacking. Yet, night and night again he had tried to make it work and every single time he had failed. He felt the magic behind his eyes, but it would not be coaxed into coming out. When he tried to channel it at Arthur, it felt like he hit a wall. Once, Arthur had almost caught him practising the ancient words, but he had gotten away with a scare. His mind kept drifting back to what the dragon had said. Was is really possible that his magic should fail him now? Sure, Killgarrah had said that Wandering took time to learn, but he was supposed to be the greatest warlock of all times or some-such. Perhaps Wandering, like Seeing was an innate ability which he didn't posses. Or, he admitted reluctantly, the Dragon was right, as always, and he'd have to wait for that elusive Wanderer to drop in and help them.

Thus preoccupied, when his brain finally sprung back to the present, his horse was already on the ground with him buried underneath it. His arms had instinctively shot up to protect his head, but it was too little. All around him deadly hooves were flailing through the air, hitting the ground, swirling up dust so that he couldn't see anything. The animal was writhing, neighing hysterically. One hit to a vital area and he wouldn't stand up. He couldn't help but cry out in fear as one of the blows narrowly missed his head. He was panicking, struggling to get away. It was no use. He could not use his hands. His leg was hopelessly squashed beneath the animal that was turning on it's back from one side to the other. He was being dragged along, his bones being bent to the breaking point. But he hardly even noticed the pain. He was too busy trying to escape fatal injury to care about one broken bone or two. Then, a hollow bash. A crack. Sharp, menacing pain. He screamed. All he felt was pain. Pain and horror. This had to be one of those nightmares. It felt like one of the nightmares. If he died, he'd wake up. He wanted to wake up.

But it was real. Good Gods, it was real. He'd die. Not saving Arthur's life. Not executed for sorcery. He'd be trampled to death by a horse. How pathetic.

Then a tight grip around his shoulders. A sharp tug. His leg felt like it was being torn from his body. He couldn't take it any more.

He was free. Being dragged. Pulled up. Pushed back down. Something heavy on top of him. His head was being pressed to the ground, his nose in the dirt. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't see anything. He struggled to get up.

"Stay down!" a voice yelled at his ear. Arthur. He instinctively listened. He was pressing his body to the ground. Breathe, his mind told him. He had forgotten to. He listened. His chest felt like it would burst. Something was moving beneath his tunic, pressing against his skin from the inside. He almost cried out but he continued breathing. In and out. Heaven's it hurt like hell. An oxymoron. Was it though?

"Shit." Sharp, anxious. He turned his head a little. Arthur was peering into the darkness around them. He followed his glance. In, out. Men coming out of the trees. So many. Arthur was saying something. He forced his ears to listen.

"...need you to run as fast as you can. Can you do that?" Could he? His body felt like it was splitting with every breath he drew. No, wait. Not the issue.

"I'm not leaving you," he managed to press out.

"Idiot, I'll be right behind you," Oh, all right. Of course. His mind was not working properly. Just keep ignoring the pain. In, out.

"You ready?" No, not really. But Arthur probably wouldn't listen to him. He never did, did he? And Merlin was right all the time, too. He nodded. Arthur jumped to his feet, to fast for Merlin to follow.

He crawled to his knees, pushed his body up. In, out. Staggered to his feet. Arthur screamed at him. He was stumbling through the woodwork. Metallic clonking behind him. Arthur was fighting. Why was he fighting? He was supposed to be right behind him.

Merlin turned. The prince was fending off two men at once, armed with swords. Another man was approaching him from behind, brandishing a sickeningly polished axe. His eyes were glittering with savage joy. Merlin leapt forward. If he could just reach them in time. But it was so far. He needed something, a miracle. Magic.

Magic. Right, he had magic. Why hadn't he thought of that earlier? He called forth the ancient force from the back of his mind. A brief wave of heat behind his eyes. He focused on a branch of a tall tree and forced a shock-wave out of his hand. A loud crack and a thump. The man had been crushed, the axe sticking out from underneath his body. Arthur was on the ground, fighting off one of the bandits. Even more were closing in on him, circling him, drawing closer. He had to do something, anything. He could blow them all away, but not here, not with Arthur around. Another flash of gold, two more men down. But the others didn't even flinch.

He screamed. Shouted. Took a rock and threw it. Finally they turned to him.

"Come and get me!" he yelled, stumbling backwards. "What, scared?"

That did it. Anger in their eyes, they raised their weapons, storming at him. He turned and ran, sprinted through the bushes, the thorns ripping his clothes and tearing at his skin. His foot caught a root and he fell. His hand grabbed onto the first thing it touched. He scrambled to his feet, he needed to get further away. Somewhere where Arthur couldn't see him. There, a clearing amongst the trees, far enough away. Even ground.

He turned. Something swished past his face, flashing in the dim light. He ducked away. Another flash, no time to evade. His hand was still holding on to something. He ripped it up, his ribs sending sharp waves of pain through his body. He closed his eyes, waiting for the impact. For the something in his hand to break. For the other something to strike his head with menacing force. Now, any moment he'd die.

But no, the something in his hand saved him. He looked up. He was holding a sword, locked with a gigantic hammer. Good Gods, were there nails that big? What had this guy been hammering? The answer to that question became painfully obvious when the man liberated his weapon and swung it down at his head. He stumbled backwards, managing to escape the blow. People were screaming around him, cheering, clapping. Great for them that they were enjoying the show.

He sidestepped again, tripping. But somehow he managed to stay on his feet. If they just gave him a second to collect his thoughts. Why was he being attacked so obnoxiously? It was disrupting his concentration.

Then his ankle gave in and he was falling. The hammer hit the sword, punching it out of his throbbing fingers, flinging it into the air. He landed on the ground. Very ungraciously. But he had had enough time. The magic was pressing against his eyes again, any moment now it would break out of him and then this would be over. He'd be able to just lie on the ground, not having to move. It sounded awesome.

A scream pierced the air. He turned and saw Arthur charging at them. What a prat, always showing up at the wrong time. He was going to complain about thi...

His thoughts froze. Arthur was thrown of his feet, something long and dark sticking out of his chest. He moved a little, then - nothing. Merlin screamed his name but there was no reaction. In, out. No, that wouldn't do right now.

He turned at the men. Before he had just wanted to get rid of them because they were trying to kill them. Nothing personal, really. Now they had made a mistake. They had hurt his friend. He slowly rose, fists clenched tightly.

"Look at that, he's mad!" A man yelled, amused.

"Oh, that's cute," another one said, a wolfish grin on his face. Merlin was trembling with fury.

"Listen boy, don't make it more difficult than it has to be. Just lie down and join your friend over there," the guy with the hammer said, his voice trembling with barely suppressed mirth.

"Yeah, if you die quietly, we'll make it painless. Probably," the first one laughed. Merlin had had enough.

"You know what? I have been bludgeoned, stabbed, burned, beheaded, thrown off cliffs, strangled, drowned, poisoned and died any other way you could possibly imagine. I can tell you two things from that experience. First, it always hurts. Second: I Do. Not. Fancy. It. At all. So thanks for the offer, but I'm going to pass." His voice shook with rage. The men threw each other doubtful glances. This guy had obviously lost his mind.

"And just what are you going to do?" grinned the man with the hammer. Merlin didn't think the question warranted an oral response.

His magic exploded, hurling six people into several trees and rocks. Some of them were lucky enough to pass out before countless bones in their bodies shattered to pieces. Some were not. Merlin didn't care.

Ignoring the searing pain in his chest and head he sprinted across the field and dropped to his knees next to Arthur's body. Blood was gushing out of a wound in his shoulder, drenching his light tunic and the leather jacket in crimson red. The idiot had pulled the arrow out. With shaking hands, Merlin ripped the fabric apart, putting pressure on the hole in his friend's chest. Suddenly everything that had passed between them this past week seemed so ridiculous. The only thing that mattered was to keep that fluid in. The young warlock put a hand over the prince's chest.

"_forbærning_" he commanded. He felt the magic rise up in him, stream to his hand and- nothing. He cursed. Why did he have so much trouble with healing spells? Every single time something like this happened he could do nothing but hope that help would come along. He suppressed a sob. He needed to stop the bleeding. His shaking hand still over the wound, he rummaged through his brain.

"_hæte_" He whispered. This time it worked. The flesh beneath his hand turned hot, the blood started boiling. He withdrew his hand. The blood-flow had not ceased entirely but he didn't dare to scorch the wound any further. A bad burn infected just as easily as an open wound and he didn't know when he would be able to clean it. He felt around his pockets and pulled out a crumpled handkerchief. Well, this wouldn't do. He gave Arthur's clothes the same treatment and found a neatly folded piece of cloth. Ripping his own tunic into stripes, he pressed the handkerchief on the wound and fixed it in place.

Merlin sighed in relief. At least Arthur would not bleed out within the next couple hours. He suddenly felt very tired. The pounding in his head had grown into a full blown roar and every breath felt like knitting needles were pushed into his chest. He felt for the place where the horse had hit him and winced. One of his ribs was definitely broken, but luckily his magic seemed to be a better healer than him. The unbearable pain from right after the fall was already dulling and he was sure that in a couple of hours nothing more than a bruise would remain of the injury. He had yet to figure out why his magic sometimes healed his wounds on its own and sometimes left him ailing for months but he suspected it had something to do with his emotional state. Whenever he was on the battlefield, his wounds would heal quicker than in safety.

He finally took the time to look around. Dark figures were lying hurdled on the ground all around him. Some were completely still, some were moving and moaning. He didn't think any of them was in the condition to pursue them but just in case more of their comrades were still lurking amongst the trees, he would have to take precautions.

He slung one of Arthur's arms around his shoulder and pulled the older man up. Staggering under his new burden, he slowly started across the clearing. He had lost the map sometime during his run through the woods, but he remembered that there was village somewhere near. They had planned to stop there for the evening. He had no idea which way to go, but he had a strange feeling in his gut that he was going in the right direction.

/~/

He had been stumbling through the woods for what felt like ages. From the stripe of light grey that sometimes flashed through the trees he knew it to be not much more than an hour. Unfortunately, the sun had set beyond the horizon and the last bit of light was rapidly fading. Soon he would be surrounded by nothing but blackness. Arthur, for the first time since they had left the clearing, stirred and gave a quiet moan.

"Finally awake? You are really a prat, making me do all the hard work..." Merlin panted. At least if Arthur was awake, he could maybe move his feet a little and take some weight of Merlin. He felt like he was being pressed into the ground under the stronger built prince's body.

"You'll get to know hard work if you continue on like this." Arthur growled, as Merlin carefully lowered him to the ground, his back leaning against a tree. Sighing he sunk down in the grass beside him. He looked just about as tired and beat up as Arthur was feeling. He felt his shoulder up and cringed.

"Where are we?" he asked, looking around. His mind was a little hazy and his sight blurred.

"In the woods," Merlin replied.

"I can see that, Merlin. Where in the woods are we?"

"Somewhere with lots of trees, and wait... yes, moss."

Arthur groaned. Did Merlin not posses the fairly common ability to take things seriously?

"What happened to the bandits?" he inquired, changing the topic. He probably wouldn't get a sensible answer about their location from Merlin even if he had the energy to try and beat it out of him.

"They're gone," Merlin answered as nonchalantly as if he was talking about the weather.

"What do you mean, they're gone? They were out for blood, or at least our money, so how could they just be gone?"

"I lost them," his servant elaborated. Though it was hardly much of an elaboration.

"Lost them? Carrying me? How on earth did you manage to do that?" Arthur looked at him in disbelief. Merlin could not escape a puppy, let alone a pack of blood-thirsty bandits.

"I don't know. Guess we were just very lucky."

Arthur arched an eyebrow and stared at his servant. He did not believe a word Merlin said, but to be honest, his head hurt too much to think up a better explanation. And after all, Merlin had always proven to be shamelessly lucky when it came to fights. Somehow attackers seemed to meet great misfortunes just looking at him. Arthur was just glad those fatal effects did not extend to his friends. He watched as Merlin began to slaughter completely innocent grass-blades by the ways of plucking them from the earth. Meanwhile, the prince was pondering the pros and cons of throwing up. On the first list went the advantage of calming his unruly stomach and the lack of effort it would take to just give in to the urge. On the second list went the unpleasantness of the action and its unprincelyness. It was a tie, really.

"I'm sorry," Merlin suddenly said, interrupting Arthur's train of thought. He felt bile rise up and the ringing in his ears intensified. Maybe throwing up was the way to go after all. The blades of grass danced around him accusingly.

"About what?" asked Arthur, ripping his eyes from the flying grass and turning to his servant. He watched with great interest and mild surprise as Merlin grew a second head.

"About... acting the way I did," the young man went on. His two heads began spinning in circles.

"You know, before, when I had the nightmare. It was unfair." He seemed to be genuinely sorry and somehow his word seemed to have a deeper meaning. Though Arthur couldn't quite tell, seeing as his whole face - both his faces - had begun to melt into the ground. He slowly raised his hand and shoved his servant a little. He didn't like the seriousness in his voice, even though he couldn't discern the man's expression from the swirling mess his face was.

"Of course. You're a fool," he managed to blurt out, before the swirling mess caught on to his surroundings and ripped them into a stream of darkness. He only heard the beginning of what he believed to be 'clot pole' before he felt himself also falling into nothingness. Though this time he let himself drift without resistance. He knew, when he woke up, he would wake to a sincere, goofy grin.

/~/

Merlin was just about to heave Arthur back up, when he heard cracking in the woodwork ahead. He froze in mid-movement, then raised a hand, ready to strike in an instant. A dark figure assumed shape against the darkness, drawing closer.

He watched anxiously as it approached. However, when it moved closer, he lowered his hand. It was a woman. Her dark skirts were pulled over her ankles and fixed to her thigh with a knot, probably for better mobility on the uneven ground. Her legs, covered by scratches and dirt from undergrowth, were clothed in rough leather boots. In the darkness he could see her face shine but he was not able to discern her features. From the way she moved, he judged she was familiar with the terrain.

She stopped approximately two meters from the two young men and stared at Merlin. Her glance was piercing and unwavering. An unspoken question seemed to be lingering in her eyes as she threw a quick look at the unconscious Arthur. Merlin now saw that she was carrying a bag with several flowers sticking out. He recognized them as a breed that only blossomed in the moonlight. He had often collected them for Gaius. After a while, in which she showed no intention to speak and just continued to stare at him, he broke the silence.

"Excuse me..." he said. She took a step back, seemingly ready to run. "No, wait. We're no threat!" he shouted. Yeah right, that sounded so believable seeing as they were both covered in blood and he was still holding Arthur's unsheathed sword. He let it slide to the ground and at the sight the girl seemed to relax a little.

"My companion has been hurt and we're lost," he proceeded. She didn't make a sound, just continued to stare at him, her body tensed.

"Can you show me the way to a village? There should be one around here!" he said, growing increasingly desperate. He thought he could see a scowl forming on her face.

"It's far," she finally said and after a brief pause she nodded at Arthur, "Over an hour carrying him."

His heart sunk. Arthur had lost a lot of blood and even if Merlin should be able to carry him on his own, he might not survive for that long in the biting cold of the autumn night. He must have wandered off in the opposite direction by accident. So much for his gut feeling.

She threw a doubtful glance at Arthur's sword and seemed to ponder something.

"You might..." Merlin jumped up and she took a couple more steps away from him. The scowl on her face deepened. He realised that she still wasn't sure whether to run or not.

"I'm sorry," he said, "please help us. He's going to die."

He was surprised by the swift motion with which she suddenly brushed past him. Before he could do anything, she had dropped to her knees and pulled off the makeshift bandages on Arthur's wound.

"He might. Can't see here." She looked up to him. He was staring into the face of a girl not older than himself.

"My house," she said, affixing her eyes to Arthur's sword, "it's half an hour."

Warned by her previous reactions, Merlin refrained from making any sudden motions.

"Will you take us there?" he asked. Again a glance at the sword, then one to Arthur's wound. Her scowl deepened. She carelessly dropped the bag with the flowers to the ground and motioned him to help her as she tried to pull the prince up. He instantly took the other side.

"Thank you," he said as they started into the darkness. She did not reply and remained silent until they had reached a small wooden hut at the edge of the forest. Stemming open the door she pointed to a bed in the corner of the murky room.

"There," she told him as she picked up a span of wood and lighted it on a dimly glowing fireplace. When Merlin turned around after clumsily laying Arthur down in the appointed place, several candles were burning, throwing a flickering light into the room and the girl was on her knees, putting wood into the fire place. Small flames began licking at it as she blew on it.

"Take his tunic off," she said, while beginning to collect herbs from bunches dangling above a table from the ceiling.

"Thank you for..." Merlin began but instantly shut up when her frown deepened into a downright hostile expression. He was relieved that they had found a place to tend to Arthur's injury but this person made him more than uncomfortable. He sat in silence as she moved swiftly about the room.

/~/

_Yet another chapter safely finished. Or was it? What did you think? Tell me and don't be shy!_

_Stay tuned for scenes from my next chapter._

_Cheers, C._

_**Next time:**__ We will meet the most awesome, ultra-powerful sorceress of all times, with green, er, no, blue, maybe red- ah, let's go for pink eyes with glittery gold-stars in them, which in anybody else would be really creepy but with her are just gorgeous, with a stunning personality which to normal people seems plain annoying and arrogant but that's only on the surface, because (abysmally) deep inside she's even sweeter than Gwen. And of course she has mad fighting skills and speaks to animals. While she spends all of her screen time angsting (frankly, moping) about her tragic past and terrible future burden or alternately being all-knowing and all-powerful, for some reason neither Arthur nor Merlin can help being completely besotted and spending their entire screen time pining after her, angsting about unrequited feelings, completely ignoring the mortal peril all of Camelot is in, or alternately dueling one another to the death over her. Have I mentioned she is the first female dragon__lord__lady in existence, because frankly I think it is sexist that only boys get to play with the big guy? Her name is Soliloquy Alabastaria Stephania Sapphiria Yasminelia, but she hates it (probably because she can't remember it even with her photographic memory), so you can call her Sassy. She also occasionally goes by Adora B. LeOne. Her true name is actually Emryssia. Yes, my dear folks, the druids and the Great Dragon got it all wrong (Because they all woke up just as their prophetic dream was going "Emrys..." and they didn't catch the last part of the name, darn those stupid cosmic jokes) and Merlin is just some poor sod who fell victim to a terrible mix-up. I will also be getting rid of my beta, so that I can convey the deep feelings with the appropriate grammatical misconstructions and occasional spelling mistake (As you can see, I have already stopped splitting my sentences). NO? You don't fancy it?_

_Alrighty. Beta stays, and since she would tear me to pieces if I actually wrote anything of the above... __**NEXT TIME (for real):**__ Lots of glowering and Merlin learns something terrifying about himself._


	7. Out of the Woods

_Well, hello there everyone. I did not meet with an unfortunate accident. I didn't suffer retrograde amnesia, either. And apparently, I didn't drop off of the face of the planet, either. I did have a rather charming conversation with the turtle carrying it, managed two identity-crisis, tackled two commission paintings, survived another exam-phase and made a decision which will change my life forever (dramatic pause.)_

_I also finally finished the next chapter. Yes, I know. Gasps of disbelief. It's even double-length, to make up for it. Since it's been I while, I don't expect you guys to remember what happened up till now. Here comes recap for those who are unwilling to go back and reread._

_**You might remember the central plot-point of Camelot being struck by an illness, which kills people in their sleep. You might also remember Merlin having some nightmares, which for a while there had him acting like a total jerk towards Arthur. He also did some research and found out that the illness is being caused by a mythical creature called a Maere. Currently, Arthur and Merlin are on their way to recover a book which will assist them in finding a way to defeat it. The journey, which will take them roughly two weeks on horseback, was suddenly interrupted by a bandit-attack, which left Arthur unconscious and Merlin lost in the woods. He also saw the error of his ways and apologised for his behaviour. Following a gut feeling, Merlin encountered a girl in the woods, who reluctantly offered her help with Arthur's injuries and took them to her place. That is where we left them, and that is also where we're picking up now. **_

_**Have fun. **_

P.S: This chapter was beta'ed by nobleignominy when it was first finished way back when. Then I played around with it. Then I played around with it some more. Then I rewrote an entire character. Then I played around some more. Then my computer crashed and deleted all the changes I made to the original. Then I did it again. Point being, thanks to nobleignominy for her work and none of the many mistakes are her fault.

~/~/~

**Chapter 7: Out of the Woods**

The room Merlin found himself in, was small and looked like somebody had abandoned construction work halfway through. Left hand from the entrance, where the bed stood, the floor consisted of roughly cut wooden planks. A big, old table dominated the right side, leaving only enough place to move between the workspace and a fire pit without fear of tumbling into it. There, the ground was made entirely of stomped earth. During the day, a window right above the table provided enough light to work with, now the girl had lighted several candles which were stuck directly to the table's surface. Furniture was scarce, encompassing nothing but the one bed, the table and one chair. Several makeshift shelves which were so askew and densely populated by jars, books and various other things, that they seemed to fall apart by merely looking at them. The entire hut seemed to consist of only this one room, safe a niche opposite the entrance which was covered by a faded curtain. Merlin suspected a storage space behind it

There was now a fire burning in the pit, which was irradiating comfortable warmth into every corner of the room. Merlin soon found himself feeling drowsy, as the exhaustion of the past days and any a night of severely interrupted sleep hit him all at once.

The girl hadn't spoken a word since pointing him towards the bed. Through increasingly heavy lids he watched her shuffle around the room, knowing that he should probably introduce himself at least, but not managing to salvage the energy from his battered mind. She was rather small, at least two heads shorter than Merlin, and extremely scrawny to boot. Her disproportionately long limbs had a jerky way of moving. In the flickering light of fire and candles, her ginger hair made her look as if she was aflame herself.

"You cauterised it," she suddenly said. Merlin jumped at the sound of her strangely hoarse voice. His sluggish mind took a while until it realised she was talking about Arthur's injury and he nodded.

"Did you use a clean tool?" she asked, her hand pausing before a bunch of dried herbs hanging from the ceiling.

"Yes," Merlin replied. Of this, at least he was sure. No cleaner tool than magic. The girl cast him a doubtful frown before her hand moved on to another bunch of herbs. For a couple of minutes nothing more than the rhythmic sounds of her knife were to be heard. She didn't seem interested in learning how Arthur had come by his injuries or who they were, which was fine by Merlin, had the silence not been strangely oppressing and filled with the anxiety she seemed to irradiate with every fibre of her being.

He must have drifted off to sleep, because the next thing he knew, she was standing beside him, holding a steaming bowl and a piece of cloth. When she removed the handkerchief Merlin had used to quell the blood, her glance lingered on it for a long time and a look of strong disapproval flew over her face. Then she carelessly cast it aside and started cleaning out the wound. She had tiny, boyish hands which – in contrast to her otherwise awkward body language – moved with nimble precision. Tiny scars from cuts and burns on her fingers bore witness to a life filled with handiwork. From time to time she would throw a glance at Merlin and shake her head. After a while, she muttered something unintelligible under her breath and shuffled over to one of the shelves to pick out a jar. Adding some of its contents to another bowl, she carried it over and pointed him to take it.

"What is that?" asked Merlin.

"You're tired," she replied. Merlin raised an eyebrow. That much, he thought, was pretty much obvious. She was watching him intently.

"You don't have to, if you don't want to," she suddenly snapped. Her tone bore a tinge of insult.

"It's not that I don't want to, more like I don't know what you want me to do with it..." he pointed out carefully. Apparently she had a temper. She looked at him blankly, then a scowl formed on her face.

"Drink it," she finally muttered, turning back to Arthur. Merlin looked at the contents of the bowl. It was some kind of herbal tea. He took a sip. It tasted faintly bitter and sweet at the same time.

"Thanks," he said. She made a vague gesture with her hand which might have been anything from acknowledgement to telling him to shut up. Just to be on the safe side, Merlin did the latter. Meanwhile, she had started to smear a greenish paste onto Arthur's wound. Merlin crinkled his nose when he caught a whiff of it. It stank like a swamp after a very hot summer. He bowed deeper to examine it. At the same moment the girl rose. Her head connected with his nose in a rather painful way. The hot tea in his hands spilled over his legs.

"Outch!" he yelled, alternating between trying to brush off the hot liquid from his trousers and rubbing his throbbing nose. The girl was giving the same treatment to the back of her head.

"Sorry," he muttered, the words coming out a little distorted, "did I get any on you?" He felt his skin throbbing already where the steaming water had made contact with it. The girl's right sleeve was drenched in it as well.

"Sorry," he repeated. Leave it to him to burn their host.

"Don't be ridiculous," she muttered, looking at his hands.

"Excuse me?" he asked, somewhat baffled at the reaction. She sniffed and frowned.

"Nothing. It's fine," she said, "I don't have spares though," she added with a fierce look at his trousers.

"That's all right, I have another pair in my..." Pack, was what he wanted to say, but then he remembered that his pack had gone away without leave to enjoy a merry holiday in the woods. "Nevermind," he sighed. She sniffed again and drummed the tip of her nose with a finger. She rose to disappear behind the curtain and came back shortly after, carrying a bundle of cloth.

"For now," she muttered, specks of red appearing on her otherwise pale face. Merlin unfolded the cloth. It was a skirt.

_A skirt._

"Thanks, but I think I'll just stay in these," he said flatly. She looked at him and shrugged.

"Whatever. You'll be ant-bait, though," she said. Merlin's eye twitched, "They run a street across the room," she added. His eye twitched again. He could already feel the tiny little disgusting things crawling up his legs. He sighed. Life just generally didn't like him, did it?

"You can change, or leave it," his host said, her face a perfect picture of unconcern, and turned around. He regarded the skirt with a defiant look. Whatever, it was just a piece of clothing, right? There were whole countries that considered it perfectly normal for men to wear skirts. He sent a quick prayer to all the gods he believed in, and for good measure all the gods he didn't believe in, that Arthur would never, ever learn of this incident and changed.

"I'm done," he said, moving his legs to adjust to the very strange breezy sensation between his legs. The skirt, being the girl's, was a bit tight around the waist and barely reached halfway to his ankles. It took her another couple of minutes to turn around. Weird.

"There's a well around the corner," she said, a barely visible mischievous glint in her eyes. Merlin took his trousers and made as dignified an exit as he possibly could. Before the door swung shut behind him, he heard a strangled noise that sounded suspiciously like a snort. His ears were glowing against the cool evening air.

When he came back inside, she also had changed out of her drenched tunic and donned another one. Its faded red clashed horribly with her ginger hair. She wordlessly took his trousers and hung them over the fire-pit. A look at Arthur told him that she had finished redressing the wound in his absence. There was one good thing to be said for this rather humiliating experience. The inherently non-threatening aura that men in skirts irradiate seemed to have put her at ease with his presence. Her movements were more relaxed now and her frown had mellowed out considerably. Which in turn went a great deal in making him more comfortable. She nodded towards the table, and he sat down. A minute later he found another cup of tea sitting in front of him, the girl now engaged in cleaning the table.

Sipping the tea and being less sleepy, he had leisure to examine her closer. Her face, though it certainly wasn't handsome in a traditional way, was striking in its own right. Small as everything else about her, it was so pale that the skin seemed almost translucent, revealing fine blue veins on her temples. Her nose had too much character for elegance, but it was finely shaped. Her eyes were almost eerily large and of a grey that was remarkable in its extreme paleness. They seemed to take on a yellowish tinge as they reflected the light from candles and fire-pit. She had tied her hair into a messy ponytail and had a habit of blowing stray strands out of her eyes with brief, irritated puffs. From time to time she would look up and check his face as if she was searching for something.

"Thanks for all your help," Merlin said after a while, just as she was once again looking at him. After all, no matter how taciturn she was, she had taken in two complete strangers. Considering that she seemed to live by herself in this out of the way place, that hadn't been exactly risk-free for her. She gave him a quick, confused glance and shrugged.

"I'm Merlin, by the way," the warlock said and held out his hand, remembering common politeness a little belatedly. She stopped her movements, seemingly consulting with the table about what to make of that statement.

"Tesni," she finally replied. She didn't take his hand. Merlin felt increasingly foolish, his hand suspended in mid-air.

"That's peculiar," he said, rushing without thinking to fill the silence. The scowl returned and he saw a few specks of red appearing on her cheeks.

"I mean," Merlin stammered, trying to correct his slip, "it's a strange name. As in rare. Or unusual. But it's pretty. Pretty unusual. Or unusually pretty..." He was now babbling on randomly. Tesni, who had kept watching him sharply, looked confused.

"Shut up," she muttered suddenly, clapping one hand against her forehead. It left a red mark. Merlin stared at her, a little taken aback. She caught his glance and frowned.

"I'm not...anyway," she said grumpily and rearranged a couple of items on the table.

"Do you...That is, are you hungry?" she asked suddenly. Merlin weighted his answer carefully. On one side, he was indeed very hungry. On the other, she didn't look thrilled at the idea of having to feed him. Finally desire won over caution and he nodded. Tesni's lips twitched once again in what seemed the beginning of a suppressed smile.

"I see. That's...anyway. Don't..." her voice trailed off and she disappeared behind the curtain on the other side of the room. Merlin raised an eyebrow. Don't what? Move? Breathe? He heard several thuds and a crash, then a string of subdued curses. Tesni returned and looked around the room with a very preoccupied expression.

She had just opened her mouth, when there was a knock at the door. Merlin jumped and turned around, while the girl didn't react at all. There was another knock. Then a rough voice cursed and the door creaked open and a man stepped in. Merlin thought that his steps were much heavier than they needed to be. The girl looked up, surprise on her face.

"Ah knocked, but with yow bein'..." the man said, looking a little awkward. Tesni sniffed and nodded. The man caught Merlin's glance and frowned. Taking Tesni lightly by the elbow, he led her into a corner and started talking to her in a subdued tone. Tesni first looked puzzled, then flustered and finally she frowned; making a vague gesture at Arthur and shaking her head. The man followed her gesture, his gaze drifting from Arthur to Merlin to the cursed skirt. He looked bewildered for a second, then he returned to talking at Tesni. His voice was becoming increasingly agitated as he spoke. Merlin rose and strolled over.

"Is there a problem?" he asked, drawing himself up a little. The effect, how ever minuscule it might have been under normal circumstances, was further diminished by the fact that the bearded man was about twice as wide as Merlin and towered at least a head above him. It was rendered beyond the ridiculous by Merlin's new attire. He really needed to figure out how Arthur managed to look intimidating, no matter whom he was facing. Though Merlin suspected that even Arthur couldn't pull it off in a skirt.

"Ay yower business," the man said gruffly, his eyes glued to the offending garment. Merlin was just about to reply, when he felt a slight tug at his sleeve. He looked down to find Tesni looking at him in mild confusion.

"It's all right, they need my help," she muttered, glancing outside. Two horses were tied to a pole in front of the hut, dancing around nervously.

"Can't it wait till tomorrow?" she asked, turning towards the man. He shook his head. Tesni threw her hands up in a resigned gesture and turned her back on him.

"I'll need a moment," she announced, disappearing behind the faded curtain at the other side of the room.

""Bloody obstinate 'ooman. Could save 'erself all of this, just doin' what she's 'ere for an' not complainin'. But just as He moves in mysterious ways, so do wenches, eh?" the man muttered, staring at the curtain. His voice was gruff, but there wasn't any real hostility in it.

"Vaugh," he said, turning towards Merlin, "an yow am a maeter of 'ers, am yow?"

"Er, no, we just met. My friend got hurt and we needed help," Merlin replied, hoping he had understood the question correctly. He wasn't familiar with this particular variation of the English language and had a bit of trouble keeping up.

"'Em bandits, I reckon. Bin spreadin' plague loik. Bad 'arvests ay 'elpin." He regarded Merlin with a dubious look, his eyes once again catching on the skirt. Merlin shifted uncomfortably and felt his ears beginning to glow. Vaugh shrugged and shot a glance at Arthur.

"Ah, but o'll tell yow summat, yow am in luck. 'Er is a gain un, if nuthin else," he said with a tinge of contentment in his voice and nodded to emphasise his words. "Though I'd still keep one eye owt for 'er, in yower place."

"And why is that?" asked Merlin.

"Well, yow never know with 'er kind. Shifty lot, they am. That's why we don't 'ave 'er living in the village," Vaugh said, looking at the curtain with a furrowed brow. Merlin was just about to ask what 'lot' the man was referring to, when Tesni returned, dragging a clonking basket along. Brushing past him wordlessly, she handed it to Vaugh. The man gave Merlin a quick nod, then the door fell shut behind them.

The warlock rubbed his head. He wasn't sure what to make of this situation, or what to do with himself, left alone in a stranger's house. He felt it would be rude to snoop around, so for starters he sat himself back down at the table and finished his tea. It was definitely working, as the last bit of drowsiness had vanished. Hopefully Tesni was as good with tending to injuries as she was with exhaustion. He threw a glance at Arthur. His friend was still unconscious, but his tone looked much better than it had half an hour ago. Yet Merlin felt a little uneasy. People sleeping wasn't exactly a cause for relief these days, after all.

Time passed by. After a while, boredom and curiosity finally got the better of him and he inspected the room more closely. While it was indeed hardly furnished, it was by no means empty. There was a considerable amount of clutter all over the floor. Discarded clothes (thankfully only the decent ones, as far as he could see) rested there alongside bits of parchment, books and dinnerware, the contents of which were in various stages of dead-or-alive. Merlin shook his head. Somebody should tell Tesni that this kind of lifestyle was unhealthy. Then he grinned as he imagined anybody actually trying to tell her that. Their trouble would probably be rewarded with a frown and a snapped 'ridiculous'. Or just ignored.

He picked up one of the books lying on the ground and flipped through it. Despite its tattered appearance and the signs of regular abuse, it must have cost a good chunk of money, for it was a richly illustrated guide on human anatomy. He grimaced. Gaius kept haunting him with books such as this. He just couldn't see the point in spending hours and hours of his scarce spare time trying to distinguish between an artery and a vein when he could use his magic to heal injuries. If he ever figured out how to work healing-spells, that was. He squinted at the foreign script, presumably describing the function of a heart. Notes had been jotted down in two sets of handwriting at the margins. He clapped the book shut and strolled over to the shelves to inspect their contents. There were jars and pots of dry roots, herbs and other unidentifiable things. One particularly obscure jar seemed to contain...Merlin drew closer and shivered. Yep, eyeballs. He hoped they weren't human.

He was debating whether to take a peek behind the curtain when he heard a noise from the bed. Arthur was sitting up and glancing around the room with drowsy eyes.

"What," he croaked, flipping back the covers.

"I don't think you should move too much," Merlin commented, when the prince flinched and felt his bandages. Arthur threw him a pointed glance and proceeded to do as he pleased. Merlin sighed.

"Where are we?" Arthur asked as he was wrestling with his tunic.

"Somewhere near a village called Aaroth, I don't know the particulars," Merlin replied. Arthur's tousled head appeared from the collar of his shirt.

"What happened?" he asked.

"You already asked me that before," Merlin said, "We were attacked, remember?"

"Yes, _Mer_lin, I do remember. What happened after that?"

"You asked me that before, too. Seriously, if you're not going to listen, why bother asking?" Merlin muttered, but explained anyway as well as he could. Obviously he left out the bits about the involvement of tons and tons of illegal magic.

"I see," Arthur said when he was finished. "Well, I guess we should get going." Merlin rolled his eyes.

"Once again I wonder whether your ears have not been replaced with tomatoes. We have no horses, no provisions, its pitch dark outside and we have no map to boot. Unless you're planning on heading straight towards the land of no return, we should call it a night for today," he pointed out. Arthur looked like he wanted to argue, but kept quiet, without a doubt seeing that Merlin had raised a couple of valid points.

"Also, I think it would be extremely rude to just up and leave without thanking Tesni. This is her house," Merlin added. Arthur gave him a grunt in response. Merlin picked up the cup he had used before, rinsed it with some water from a bucket placed on top of the table and refilled it. Then he handed it to Arthur.

"So, where is this Tesni?" the prince asked when he took it. Merlin shrugged.

"Gone out. She's, how should I put this, not exactly talkative?" he replied.

"Well, that explains that," Arthur said eyeing his servant from head to toe with a suspicious look, "but one question remains. Merlin, what in the Lord's name are you wearing?"

/~/

Tesni pulled the reigns of her horse tighter to slow it down. She was currently very preoccupied with her house-guests. Meeting strangers in these parts was a pretty rare occurrence. The neighbouring village of Meardor pretty much took up the entire traffic and there were much better ways to reach it than to ride through the bandit infested woods. She sighed. She hoped she was mistaken about the identity of the blonde man, but with her luck chances were that her assumptions were correct.

She flinched when she felt a light tug at her sleeve and looked up. Vaugh had pulled up beside her. She had difficulties seeing his face in the moonlight but it was enough and luckily he had shaved his beard.

"Yow bin rerkin in lost uns then?" he asked when he saw that he had her attention. She shrugged.

"They needed help," she replied slowly. And I'm an idiot, so I had to offer, she added in her mind.

"Playin' arahnd with blokes as yow doh know" muttered Vaugh, "up theer in them woods, ay no bloody good. O'll tell yow summat strert away. It ay every bloke uzz is safe yow know."

Tesni sniffed. "I know that," she replied grumpily, "but...I could hardly just leave them there. It's not what my master would have done, either." That much at least was irrefutable. Her master had been one to help people in need, no matter who they were or what kind of inconveniences it caused her. Vaugh nodded.

"Ahh, yower mistress was a goodun' anytime we needed a bit of an 'ond. Good onya for keepin' er memory up," he muttered good naturedly. His expression softened somewhat.

"Bot, still, I mightn't want yow traipsin' in 'n' out all bloody day and under me feet wit yow livin' next door, bot aah doh want yow fahnd dead among them trees either...nah goo!"

Tesni threw Vaugh a doubtful glance, not quite sure what to make of this unexpected display of concern. Among the villagers, Vaugh had always been the one who seemed to mind her presence the least, going as far as stopping by her hut once in a while to do minor repair work and exchange a couple of words. It was probably due to his status as something of a leader among the villagers that Tesni and her master had been allowed to settle down here. Hidden behind Vaugh's brutish appearance was a keen mind that knew exactly how to spin things to his advantage.

"Thanks," she finally replied, a little heat rising in her face. Vaugh laughed when he saw her conflicted expression.

"Tay no bloody good pulling yer ferce like that, either ma wench. People will think yow a mardy un." He then said something else, which was entirely lost on Tesni because they were riding through a small grove and the faint light of the moon didn't reach.

They rode on in silence. Tesni's thoughts were still lingering with the two strangers in her house. She was uneasy, leaving them there by themselves. In any case, she would now have to let them spend the night, wouldn't she? They would also need to be fed. She had stupidly suggested it herself, only to discover that she didn't have anything that was fit to be served to strangers.

"They should be glad to get anything at all. Kick them out if they complain," said a peevish little voice in her head.

"Ridiculous," Tesni replied.

"You know, Vaugh's right. You shouldn't be going around picking up strangers. You know who that blonde guy is, don't you?" the voice continued. Tesni stiffened.

"No, I don't," she said, not very convincingly, "I might be wrong."

"With your luck? You're definitely spot-on. I bet they came for you," the voice sneered, "You should get rid of them before it's too late. The one with the big ears kept staring at you all the time and I bet that tea wasn't an accident, either. A little foxglove would solve your problem nicely, don't you think?"

"I told you before, that's ridiculous," Tesni repeated.

"Well, suit yourself," the voice sniffed.

"I will," Tesni said. Who had asked the voice for its opinion anyway? Every single time it would crawl out of whatever dark corner of her mind it resided in and offer its doubtful insight into anything that mattered or didn't matter. Taking aside the fact that Tesni had an unfortunate tendency to voice her replies out loud and thus make a fool of herself in front of others, she suspected that most people would consider hearing voices in your head as a sign for raving madness.

"Well, you don't need me to know that you've got more than just a couple of screws loose," the voice commented, "Knock, knock..."

"Shut up," Tesni snapped

"I'm just saying," the voice replied. Tesni turned an imaginary cold shoulder at the back of her mind and focused on her mount. Years of evidence to the contrary had not stopped her from hoping that if she just ignored the voice long enough, it would get bored eventually and go away on its own accord.

Vaugh was talking again, though probably more to himself than to her, because he was facing away.

"...yow gerrit in yer yed to do it, well I gorra stand 'ere and take a roit pastin ay oi?" At the last bit he had turned to look at her. Tesni muttered something that could reasonably taken for consent, though she still wasn't sure what he was talking about. This was why she wasn't comfortable around people. They kept talking and then they expected her to voice an opinion, which of course she couldn't.

Vaugh was talking again. Tesni caught the words 'Maude' and 'missus' and bit back a grin. Everyone knew that Vaugh, nonewithstanding his many lengthy laments and complaints, was absolutely smitten with his family. Not that anyone could blame him. His wife had an unfortunate tendency to use broomsticks as a means of communication, but she never as much as looked at another man. His son, now the right age for apprenticeship, was smart and obedient and his daughter's honey-coloured locks and big blue eyes had every youth in the village chasing after her. They were an unusually cheerful bunch and even the peevish voice in Tesni's head had to grudgingly admit that they were probably as honest as people came. At least it had never mentioned foxglove in regards to them.

The had now arrived at the outskirts of the village. A couple of boys, who had evidently been on the lookout while entertaining themselves with a game at marbles, sped away to inform others of the arrival. Only one small boy remained behind, collecting his- judging from the size of his trouser pockets remarkable- winnings.

To the right, Stetten's farm lay dark except for one window which Tesni knew to be the kitchen. His wife was probably finishing up the preparations for tomorrow's dinner. She had served as a maid in town before her marriage and had grown accustomed to the elaborate foods her mistress demanded of her staff. Some of the villagers said that Sophie put on airs that were unbecoming of a farmer's wife, though Tesni herself had never noticed anything of the kind. She had been in and out at the farm last winter, when Stetten had managed to cut into his own leg while chopping firewood and the wound had festered. As payment for her services she had been supplied with ample portions of the food and had to admit that Sophie knew what she was doing. She made a mental note to check up on her some of these days, as she was pregnant with her first child.

"Who fell ill?" she asked when they had passed the farm. Vaugh's usually friendly face darkened.

"The smithy and 'is kids," he said, "an Jessup ain't lookin' too good, either. I 'ave bin keepin ma eyes out for any moower a them simpletons yow was gooin on abaht. I reckon oive sin three mower on um."

"Symptoms," Tesni corrected absent-mindedly. Vaugh muttered something about potatoes. Tonight she would only look at those who were showing pronounced symptoms. There just wasn't enough light to do any proper work, because she would have to talk to people. Tomorrow she'd probably have to accompany the two travellers into the village in any case and that would give her the opportunity to check up on the rest of the villagers. Thinking of which. She had given the matter some thought and she wanted those two out tomorrow morning. The sooner the better and if she could do anything to facilitate the process, she would.

"Vaugh...," she started, not quite sure how to make the request. She had to think about the phrasing carefully. If she came off too brash or demanding, he might think she was being presumptuous. After all, he didn't owe her anything and she didn't want to look like she was taking his help for guaranteed.

"Do you think...that's...anyway." Her spirits faltered and she shut up. She could ask later, or let the strangers deal with the issue. Maybe it wasn't that important that they left early.

"Out with it, wench," Vaugh said.

"Well, I know it's harvest time and everything, and I guess it's impossible, after all," she muttered, heat rising to her face. Vaugh waited patiently. He was used to her breaking off in mid-sentence.

"I mean, the two at my place. They'll probably need horses, tomorrow. I think they lost theirs. So, it would probably be good, if...That's, I think they'd be willing to pay, maybe..." she stuttered lamely. So much for careful phrasing. Vaugh scratched his chin.

"Yow want me to put in a word fer 'em?" he asked.

"No, not...anyway, you don't know them, so it's more like putting in a word for me putting in a word," she replied. The voice in her mind snickered.

"O'll ask abaht," said Vaugh, "I reckon one or two people mightn't be against it, if the price is right." Tesni gave a breath of relieve. Now for the second part. She inhaled.

"Also, I know that it isn't the time yet, and I know you probably don't have much to spare, but I haven't been counting on other people and I used up most of my food. So, just enough for tonight..." she continued on, her ears glowing. Vaugh's shoulder quivered with laughter.

"Makin that ferce again, loik yer askin fer pure gold. O'll ave the missus pack something fer yow," he said. Tesni muttered something along the lines of a thank you, too embarrassed to look at him. This was worse than running a marathon uphill.

They had finally reached the small square at the centre of the village. Though centre might be a bit of an overstatement. The entire village consisted of only one main street and two rows of houses beyond that. Vaugh dismounted and tied his horse to a pole next to the well before helping Tesni to do the same. A young woman was rapidly approaching them. Her blonde hair was in disarray and her clothes were ruffled. She bore a troubled expression on her face.

"'Ow do, Maude," Vaugh greeted his daughter, "why so miffed?" Maude unhinged Tesni's basket from the saddle and gave her a brief, but not unfriendly, nod. She had remembered to bring a torch, too, which now shed light on her and her father's faces.

"It's no bloody good. Ov bin bandagin' them wounds but some are gooin bad ways. An'," she said breathlessly, looking from her father to Tesni, "Queer Dottie's dead half an hour agoo."

Vaugh cursed. "Poor owd Annie. Er luved that babby ter bits, as puddled as it bin. Ers in the 'onds of him up theer now," Vaugh did a cross on his chest and Maude repeated the gesture. Then she turned to Tesni.

"Aside from the potmons missus, Jessup's gorrit worst," she said, "then there's the smithy an 'is small uns." She drew back cloth covering the basket and peeked inside. Tesni bit back a smile. Maude was always swaying between disapproval of her trade and fascination with the same. She showed a great deal of aptitude for it, too, as Tesni's master had noted on several occasions. Not that they would have told her that. Some things were better left undiscovered, if possible.

"Where should I start?" asked Tesni. Maude considered the question for a while.

"Jessup," she finally decided. Tesni nodded and walked off into the direction of his house, Maude close behind her. It took her only a quick look to see that Jessup wasn't long for this world. His body weakened by years of liquor-abuse, he had already been circling the drain before the illness struck. Now his skin had turned yellow and his pulse was so faint it was barely detectable. A disgustingly sweet odour hung in the air.

Maude had already tended to his injuries, so the only thing left to do for Tesni was to give his wife a couple of remedies which would ease his pain and assist in sealing the wounds.

"In her place, I would chuck them out the window and make him suffer," said the voice in her head and after a look at the colourful bruises all over the poor woman's face and hands, Tesni for once agreed. There were two ways for bruises and split lips to suddenly appear on a woman's face. One was the illness and the other was a husband. In this case Tesni knew it to be the latter. She gave her a powder which, when mixed with water, would help in bringing the swelling down.

At the blacksmiths she was met with a surprise. While the smith and all of his children were asleep and would not be roused, there was an odd discrepancy in the illnesses progress. The two younger children both had suffered severe injuries, while the oldest brother had only a shallow cut across his chest and the father wasn't injured at all. Tesni frowned. Maude had told her that the smith had been the first one to fall asleep, followed by the girl, the oldest son and then the toddler. So how came the symptoms didn't match the order? This was something she would have to investigate further. She rose to her feet and wiped her hands on her apron. Maude was watching her reaction intently. The young woman was smart, she might have noticed the discrepancy as well. She would have to question her on that tomorrow.

When they were approaching the potter's house, Vaugh joined them, a grim expression on his face. He threw his daughter a quick glance, who took a deep breath and cleared her throat. Tesni paused, unsure what to make of this strange behaviour.

The young woman was nestling the basket and looking as if she didn't quite know what to say.

"Ark, oi ay sayin' that at all," muttered the older girl, her gaze fixed to the ground, "but these lot around 'ere...you know what they'm like when they get their yeds together?" Maude threw a quick glance at Tesni and nestled at the basket she was carrying.

"Once the start they won't shut their big gobs. They're already gooin at it, abaht what you 'ave... an ay dun..." Maude continued, "aah dow think thez an ikling of truth to enny on it," she added quickly. Tesni's shoulders sagged. That would explain the weird looks she had been getting from the smith's old mother, the closed window-shutters and the children that kept hushing around corners, drawing signs against evil on their chests. She felt a little queasy.

"Aah dow think the potmon wants yow in 'is 'ouse," Maude said, looking miserable. Tesni bit her lip.

"O'll try talk 'im arahnd," said Vaugh, rubbing his chin "'is Bessie is roit bloody pooly. Er cor do no worse than er's doin now, 'es got ter see that." He didn't sound very convinced.

Sure enough, Lark used his sturdy body to block the entrance to his house and refused to let Tesni put as much as a step inside. It took a good deal of bargaining on Vaugh's part and a couple of mentions of his infant girl to convince him that Tesni could hardly do any worse than it already was. Even then, the potter insisted on hovering above her and watched her every motion with his beady black eyes. And the warm breeze in her neck told her that he was muttering insults all the while. She breathed a sigh of relieve when she felt the cool night-air on her face again. Like Jessup, Bessy would probably be dead within a matter of days. She had not dared to tell Lark. Still, it was only putting off the inevitable and she shivered when she thought what would happened when she died.

She gave Maude a couple of absent-minded instructions. It was late in any case and she would be back early tomorrow, so there wasn't much the older girl could do until then. Vaugh had asked around and found a farmer willing to rent out horses that could take her two guests to Meardor, where they would be able find proper riding mounts.

Vaugh insisted on accompanying her back home, saying gruffly he wanted to make sure she didn't pick up any more stray people. The comment had Tesni fighting hard to bite back a grin. He spent the entire way trying to illicit praise for Maude from his companion, and once she had readily dropped one or two appropriate words, moved on to praise his son's handiwork on her master's gravestone.

"Ulk's abaht done with the headstoon'. Weem gooin ta purrit on 'er grerve no sooner 'es finshed with it. Worra nice peice a stoon it is an all. Sherm we ay gorra name to shove on it...ert it?" Tesni didn't reply. She had always suspected that her master had enjoyed shrouding herself in a veil of mystery just a little too much. Over half a decade she had lived with the woman, yet she had never gotten as much as a name out of her. Not for lack of trying, too. Then she had died two weeks ago, leaving Tesni to deal with the illness by herself. She didn't feel up to it, not with villagers dropping like flies. If she only could contact her master's friends. It wasn't that she didn't know how, but she wasn't sure they would come. They were a secretive folk and liked to keep to themselves. Even if they sent someone, would the villagers accept their help? They were distrustful of her, how would they react to a complete stranger? Maybe if she explained it to Vaugh, he might work some of his amazing persuasive skills on them.

"Vaugh," she started as her hut came into sight, this time resolved to not make a mess of her phrasing. "I think, this illness...It's a little too much for me. I wasn't done with my apprenticeship. It might be wise to call in some help." She was pleased. The words had come out smoothly, no sign of stuttering. But Vaugh shook his head.

"I know what's gooin through yower head an it ay gunna fly," he said, rubbing his chin. With a look at her he added, "Yow bay a baddun, yow bay. Yow know yer stuff. Yowm gunna be awright." On one hand, this display of confidence in her skill was flattering. On the other, she felt he expected too much out of her. She had no idea where the illness had come from or how to deal with it. Then again, if even Vaugh didn't think it was a good idea, then she had no chance of convincing the others, either. She dismounted and gave the reigns of her horse to Vaugh. The vicious animal snapped at her sleeves. She gave it a glare that would hopefully haunt it for the rest of its natural life. And after that, if possible. Vaugh handed her basket back. It was heavy with a couple of lumpy packages.

"That's fer yow. The missus packed sum pie, too." She thanked him and took it. A couple of moments later he was on his way back to the village. She sighed in relief. Among the villagers, Vaugh was the easiest to talk to, but she found that having no conversations at all was even easier. Then she frowned. There was the matter of the blacksmith she would need to think about. She could think of a couple of explanations for the odd progress of the illness, but they would have to be tested carefully. She didn't want to...she froze. Deep in thought, she had opened the door and found herself in her home. With two strangers she had completely forgotten about.

"Scatterbrain," the voice said. Tesni agreed.

/~/

"It's a shame you changed out of that. I think it looked lovely," said Arthur, his eyes dancing with mirth. For the past half hour, all that Arthur had done was quip about dress-related issues and he was enjoying himself. A lot. Merlin? Probably not so much, but who cared. This was too good an opportunity to pass by. He was just about to shoot off another remark on his servant's preferences, when he heard the sound of hooves outside. In a subdued volume, a youthful voice exchanged a couple of words with a much less subdued man. He was, however, speaking in such a thick dialect, Arthur couldn't understand his answers despite the volume.

There was a brief moment of silence, then once again they heard a muffled sound of trampling carry away the horse- and presumably its rider- into the distance. The door opened and a girl entered the room, her hair and clothes dishevelled from travelling on horseback. Her eyes were narrowed pensively and one hand was mistreating the bridge of her nose. His first impression was that she was best left alone to ponder whatever issue was troubling her. Still, just ignoring her appearance would have been impolite, so he rose from the bed to introduce himself. At the sound of his clothes rustling, her head darted up. The hand that had been mistreating her nose dropped. She stared at him several seconds, mouth slightly open in confusion at his presence in her house. Then her mouth clamped shut and a deep scowl appeared on her face.

She dropped the basket she was holding to the floor. Judging by the sound of it, some of its more fragile contents broke. With a depreciative huff, she hushed past him, behind the curtain at the other side of the room.

Arthur raised an inquiring eyebrow towards Merlin, completely perplexed by her reaction. His servant just shrugged his shoulders, biting back a grin. Something rustled behind the curtain and the girl reappeared, holding a worn, but well mended jacket. She threw it on the bed and stared at Arthur, still scowling. He stared back, not certain what to make of it. Was she mute per chance? She sighed.

"Put it on," she commanded brusquely, "with blood loss such as yours you have to keep warm." He picked up the jacket and put it on. It reeked of mothballs but it was comfortable. He thanked her. She ignored his words and picked up her basket, placed it on the table, and proceeded to unpack its contents. A couple of glass containers wandered onto the shelves and then some wilted looking vegetables appeared on the table, alongside two jars and three packages warped in canvas. She placed the basket back into a corner of the room and disappeared out the door, not regarding either of the young men with even one look. Arthur turned to Merlin. "Something you did?" he asked. After all, seeing as he had been unconscious the whole time, her attitude could hardly be directed at him.

"Not as far as I know." Merlin answered. "She's been like that since I met..." his voice trailed of, as the girl re-entered, carrying a big bucket with water. It splashed all over the floor and some stray papers as she heaved it onto the table. She then proceeded to chop the vegetables with a knife. Arthur decided this was enough silence, mostly because he felt really awkward standing in the middle of somebody else's house while being completely ignored.

"Thanks for helping us," he said. The girl continued chopping. "It will not go unrewarded," he added somewhat stiffly. Maybe some monetary incentive would lighten the mood. She didn't even deign to look at him in response. No reward then? Or should he just shut up? She poured the water from the bucket into the kettle over the fireplace and watched as the waves calmed down. Then she looked up again.

"Potatoes or meat with soup?" she asked, staring at him. He gave her a blank look. The question sounded sincere, but her expression was somewhere between willing him to disappear into thin air and wanting to disappear into thin air herself.

"We'll have potatoes" Merlin quickly jumped in. Arthur shot him a poisonous look. Did he think he wouldn't realise that she probably couldn't afford much meat? Admittedly, his track record wasn't the best when it came to peasant food, but he was able to learn! He had changed since the time when Merlin's mother had offered him breakfast and he had been..well, not rude exactly...somewhat less polite. In any case, that had been ages ago and he was much better around peasant food these days. Gwaine had seen to that. The girl was still staring at Arthur who confirmed the potatoes. She put one package aside and proceeded to peel three potatoes. Merlin stepped forward.

"Is there anything I can do?" he asked. Arthur wished he had done the same. That would at least have been a way to get out of the middle of the room. She didn't react at first and when she did raise her head and met Merlin's expectant glance, she frowned.

"What do you mean?" she asked. Arthur raised an eyebrow. It had been a pretty straight-forward question.

"With the cooking. I'd like to help," Merlin said, seemingly unperturbed.

"Oh. That's...I mean, sure." She took out a second knife and pointed it at the tomatoes that she had left untouched so far. Merlin followed her invitation, if it could be called that, and started chopping them up.

Damn him, Arthur thought, how dare Merlin make him the only one standing around completely unemployed. Under normal circumstances this would have been the most normal occurrence. He would have even frowned at having to help with cooking, but in this atmosphere doing something seemed to be the only way to relieve some of the tension. He decided that at least he could sit back down on the bed. He noticed that Tesni, as Merlin had called her, periodically looked at Merlin or him with sharp glances. Merlin chopped the tomatoes quietly for a while, then he looked up as she was doing the same.

"How did your trip to the village go?" he asked nonchalantly, as if he had known their host for ages. She frowned.

"People are sick." she said. "Falling asleep." That caught Arthur's attention.

"Falling asleep? How long has this been going on?" he asked. So the disease had spread into this remote area of the kingdom. Again she took her time taking notice of him. His mind was racing to come up with a way, any way, in which he could have offended her. They hadn't exchanged more than five sentences! Merlin looked as baffled as he was. Tesni had finished her share of the work and threw the potatoes into the now boiling water. A bit of salt followed, then she sat down on her chair, turning so that she was looking at both him and Merlin. She froze when she met his eyes and blotches of colour appeared on her face.

"I didn't...I was thinking. Did you say...?"

"I asked how long this has been going on," Arthur repeated. She brushed a strand of hair out of her face.

"A couple of weeks. Five are dead," she replied. Her eyes were darting from Merlin to Arthur. Frankly, he found the way she looked at people more than disconcerting. And that was not taking into account all the other weirdness.

"Did you treat them?" asked Merlin.

"Some. Those who are worst off. It's too dark to..." she cleared her throat, "It's too late for more. I'm going back tomorrow morning."

"So this food is your payment?" Merlin inquired, pointing at the leftover vegetables. She nodded. Arthur shook his head. If these vegetables were her payment, she was either really bad at what she did or she was selling her services way too cheap. She had noticed his reaction.

"Bad harvest. Nobody's got much to spare," she explained, "and I usually get paid on Sundays. This was...Vaugh's wife put it together last minute. And there's pie," she added, with an almost pleading note. Arthur smiled and was surprised to find her returning it. Merlin added the tomatoes into the kettle.

"You seem young to be doing this," he pointed out. Tesni bit her lip.

"The woman before me died," she muttered. Arthur wanted to ask her whether she had died of the sickness, but Merlin was faster.

"Was she your mentor?" he asked. The girl nodded.

"I'm sorry."

She shrugged. "She was old." Still, she looked somewhat lonely and that, in turn, made her less strange. After a sharp look from Arthur to Merlin – weirdness back – she rose from her seat and picked up a couple of plates off the floor. She stared at them, with such dismay in her face that Arthur laughed. He half expected one of her frowns, but she didn't seem to have noticed. Her glance wandered over the entire room and a blush spread over her face.

"I can go wash them, if you want me to," Merlin said quickly. She hesitated, then handed them to him. Merlin went out the door. Apparently he knew what he was doing. Tesni moved some of the objects on the floor around, pushing them out of sight with her foot, then she picked a fight with the kettle, trying to heave it off the fire. Some of its contents spilled on the floor. If it was too heavy, why didn't she just ask for help? He decided to lend a hand anyway and together they manoeuvred it on the desktop. Arthur winced as a stab in his shoulder reminded him that he had taken an arrow just a couple of hours back.

"You should keep away from heavy things," Tesni pointed out. Was it just him or was there a smug note in her voice? Then she climbed the chair, which wobbled dangerously under her weight, and reached for some of the herbs dangling from the ceiling.

"Cut up the pie?" she asked when she climbed back down and pointed at one of the packages. He flipped back the canvas. A generous slab of what appeared to be vegetable pie greeted him cheerfully. He cut three pieces out of it, not too much. He wasn't going to give Merlin reasons to complain about his lack of consideration. Tesni put a steaming mug in front of him.

"Drink this, it'll make the headache go away and some of the stinging in your shoulder," she said. Her nose crinkled when she regarded the pie.

"Are you...Do...anyway," she said. He took a sip from the mug. They sat in silence for a couple of minutes while Arthur was sipping the brew. All the while she was staring at him as if she wanted to ask something. How long did it take to wash three lousy plates?

"I'm sorry to be imposing on you like this," he once again apologised, to fill the quiet. Then, realising something, he extended his hand. "I don't know whether Merlin told you, but my name is Arthur." Her eyes narrowed and she looked from his hand to the corner where the bed stood. She licked her lips, inching to the edge of her seat. So Merlin, airhead that he was, hadn't told her. Finally she brushed his hands with her fingers.

"Tesni. And you're welcome," she said apprehensively. Then she jumped up and started picking up books and paper from the floor and stacking them in a corner.

"I wasn't really...You know. No one ever...anyway," she muttered. Another peculiar thing, this habit of breaking off mid-sentence and ending with 'anyway'. Finally the door creaked open and Merlin stumbled in, grinning.

"There were raccoons at the well," he announced like they were some kind of marvellous creature as opposed to pests. "I didn't want to chase them away," he added. Arthur rolled his eyes. Merlin put the plates on the table and sat down, still grinning like an idiot. Tesni cast him a very dubious look and for once, Arthur really didn't blame her. Merlin had started pouring soup onto the plates. Tesni came over and added three spoons out of a wooden goblet on the windowsill. Her hand moved towards a plate, when she stopped, looking like something was amiss. It took Arthur a second to realise what. He raised his eyebrows at Merlin and jerked his head at Tesni. His servant didn't react. Arthur pursed his lips.

"Merlin." His servant looked up. Arthur threw another telling glance at the standing girl. Merlin had the good sense to look embarrassed.

"Right." He began to rise, but Tesni shook her head.

"You can stay," she said. Merlin was apparently torn between two conflicting ideas, so he remained in an awkward half sitting, half standing position. It looked rather ridiculous. Tesni frowned and Merlin sat down. Arthur had to admit he would have done the same. There was something very finite about her frowns. He would still give him an earful later on, just because he could. Tesni was still standing as if trying to remember something. Then her face brightened up and she disappeared outside. A couple of moments later she came back in, dragging behind her a weather-beaten lug. It was broad enough to comfortably sit on, and Tesni did just that once she had successfully placed it at he table.

"Only two of us," she said slightly out of breath and brushed some hair out of her face, "that is, before, I mean." She picked up her spoon and started eating without any further ado. Arthur followed her example. He was still somewhat reluctant. The vegetables had looked well past their prime. However, he would prove to Merlin that he was perfectly capable of being courteous. This was a matter of pride. There was something off about the idea. Why did he have to prove anything to Merlin again? He was still trying to puzzle that one out when he tasted the soup. It was scalding, but...

"It's good?" he rather asked than said, surprised. Tesni's eyes widened and a small, content smile spread on her face. Arthur noticed that this new addition to her repertoire of facial expressions revealed an unexpectedly cheeky facet of her appearance. It wasn't long for this world though, because as soon as she noticed what she was doing, her hand shot up and and wiped the smile off like an unseemly smudge.

"I make do," she said.

"Don't mind him," said Merlin cheerfully, "He was raised by wolves." Tesni stared at him.

"Wolves?" she repeated slowly, like she had misheard the word. Arthur was sure he had. Had his servant just likened his father and the entire court of Camelot to a pack of ruddy animals? Merlin nodded. Apparently he had.

"Yes, wolves." Then he saw Arthur's expression and choked on his soup. "I mean...they were very well behaved wolves. Very educated and everything. More like dogs, really." Ah, well. Dogs made it that much better. Merlin seemed to realise the flaw in his logic too.

"Now that I think about it," he said quickly, "they were very chivalrous and very manly, manly...this isn't getting any better, is it?" No, it wasn't, indeed. Merlin winced under Arthur's forbidding glance.

"Are there many bandits in the woods?" he squeaked quickly. Arthur, firmly resolved to get back to the wolf-issue later, allowed the change of topic for now. He was interested in the answer. Tesni, who had an expression between amusement and incredulity on her face, nodded.

"Yes. But they're usually further off to the south." She paused. "You were very unlucky."

Arthur gave a sigh of relief and muttered,"Thank God." She looked at him with a raised eyebrow.

"We are in a hurry, so we need to continue on as soon as possible. It would really be bad if we were to be attacked again," Merlin explained.

The girl nodded. "Not likely to happen." And then, after a while: "What were you doing in these parts anyway? Nobles don't usually come through here."

"We are travelling...we're looking for something." Arthur said carefully. Even though she didn't exactly seem dangerous, past experiences had taught him to divulge as little information as possible. She was a stranger after all, and a very weird one at that.

"I see." She didn't go any further into it and merely reached for a piece of pie.

"We've lost our map of these parts. Do you know where we can get another one?" Merlin asked. Tesni didn't reply. Again. What was it with her and not answering questions? She looked up from her pie and met Merlin's expectant and Arthur's increasingly irritated look. She bit her lip.

"I...what do you mean?" she asked. Correction. What was it with her and asking about the meaning of perfectly straight-forward questions, which she had ignored before? Maybe her mind was like her shelves. Not completely straight. Merlin, glossing over his own confusion, repeated his question.

She pursed her lips. "Not in this village. People know their way around and there's never any strangers coming through." She tipped her nose, thinking. "But there's Maerdor. It's half a day's ride from here."Arthur looked at her hopefully.

"It's bigger and more strangers pass by. They have a herald's office there, which sells books and maps on the side. You can stay the night and go tomorrow. I...that is, I knew that your horses...anyway," she took a breath, "There's a farmer that will lend you horses. The price is...I pledged for you, or I will tomorrow, anyway and. But it'll still cost." She broke off and made a vague gesture towards her hair.

"Thanks," said Arthur, stunned. A look at Merlin told him that his servant hadn't asked her to do this either.

"It's not really..." she muttered, her face flushing. There was an awkward break.

"I have only one bed," she finally said ruefully.

"That's fine, we'll sleep on the floor," said Arthur.

"There's holes all over this place. You'll catch death with your injury if you sleep on the ground." Arthur protested. Even though Merlin tried to convince him on a regular basis that he was a selfish, spoiled clotpole, that was most definitely not the case. There was no way he'd have a girl sleep on the ground in her own house. He had made that mistake once before and lived to regret it. But no matter what he said, she wouldn't listen. In the end he had to admit defeat.

They ate their fill – Tesni cut up the rest of the pie and put it on their plates with a look that spelled death for anybody who dared to argue – and the men assisted her with cleaning up. This time the plates went onto the shelves instead of the floor. From behind the curtain Tesni procured two woollen blankets for Merlin, which she spread at a safe distance from the fireplace.

"No pillow," she remarked apologetically. "And I..." she added, "Well, I don't have a...latrine, so the bushes will have to do." She fumbled for her hair as she spoke, looking thoroughly embarrassed at the thought.

"Thank you. We'll be fine," said Merlin with a grin. She thought for a while, nodded and retreated to the mysterious part of the house behind the curtain that Arthur somehow felt she didn't want them to see.

/~/

Merlin woke up in the middle of the night just as he always did recently: with a jolt and a gasp. This time he had dreamt of the attack on the previous day. However, he had not succeeded in fighting off the bandits. Arthur and himself had both died very unpleasant deaths. He looked to the bed in the corner, checking whether he had made enough noise to wake up Arthur. But the prince seemed to be sleeping peacefully. Merlin arose quietly from the floor and went to the kettle to get some water. His throat was completely dry, like he had been screaming for hours. In his dream he had. He shivered and decided that he needed to get some fresh air. The door's creak sounded awfully loud to his ears when he stepped outside. He settled on the bench next to it and drew his bare feet up, hugging his knees to his body. His thoughts were still dwelling on his dream. There had been something off about it, this time. Usually these nightmares were completely realistic; he never knew that he was dreaming until he woke. This time, while he had still been terrified half to death, he had known that it wasn't real all the while. And there had been something else, a vague presence at the edge of his mind. It hadn't felt bad, rather like watching water pour down the drain. He shivered in the cool autumn night. He should have taken a blanket.

He put the thoughts of the dreams aside, trying to distract himself enough to go back to sleep. First he tried going through the spell his trusted book had recommended for Wandering, but as always it didn't work. No matter how much he focused on Arthur and no matter how he said the words, he couldn't do it. The dragon had said he would find a Wanderer. Right, like he would ever be that lucky.

He gave up on magic for the moment, it only made him fret more. Tesni's face appeared in his mind. She was an odd girl; not unfriendly per se, but weird nonetheless. During the course of the evening he had noticed something, when Arthur was talking to her. She never responded to anything that was said when she wasn't looking at you. There was something about the way her eyes fixed on your face when you spoke. As if she was reading in it like you would in a book. Her entire mannerisms reminded him of someone, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it.

The door creaked again and Merlin's head jerked up. Tesni was standing on the threshold, a candle in one hand and something dark draped over her other arm. She sat down wordlessly, put down the candle and held out a dark shape. He took it and discovered that it was one of his blankets.

"Thanks," he muttered, draping it around his shoulders. He was going to offer her part of it, but she had brought her own. They sat together silently for a while, no sound but the rustling of leaves reaching their ears.

"You're having nightmares," she said into the quiet. It was not a question. He nodded reluctantly. She turned to him and placed a cool hand on his forehead.

"I thought so," she muttered under her breath. Then she took up his hand and placed two fingers on his wrist.

"What are you doing?" he asked, but she didn't react. Her eyes were closed and she was obviously concentrating on something. Merlin waited. Several seconds passed before she dropped his wrist and lifted the candle up to his face. The sudden light blinded him and he blinked.

"I'm sorry," she said, "I was distracted?"

"What were you doing?" he repeated. Again, there was something familiar about this.

"Measuring your heartbeat."

"On my wrist?" he asked dubiously. Gaius never did that.

"Master taught me. She wasn't from here, originally," she replied. "I think," she added after a while.

"How long have you been having these dreams?"

"A while. Weeks." he answered, not completely certain what it had to do with anything.

"Exceptional," she mumbled, her gaze wandering into the night.

"What is?" he wanted to know.

"That something you and Prince Arthur are looking for, is it a cure to the sleeping illness?" she asked, not regarding his question. Her eyes snapped back to his face, and the candle that she had lowered a little went back up.

"How do you know he's the prince?" he asked her, slightly surprised. She sniffed.

"Handkerchief. His name is Arthur. It doesn't take a genius to figure it out." Merlin briefly wondered what a handkerchief had to do with anything but then remembered that he had used one to stop Arthur's bleeding. It had been embroidered with the crest of Camelot. So that's why she had been staring at it with such intensity while she was changing Arthur's bandages.

"Yes, we're trying to stop the illness," Merlin replied to her previous question after some consideration.

"Then you know what causes it?" she asked further. Merlin figured that even if he told her that a magical beast was ravaging through people's dreams and sucking the life out of them, she probably wouldn't believe him. Hell, Arthur had hardly believed him and he had seen his fair share of mythical creatures.

"We have an idea," he said vaguely.

She sighed. "At this rate you won't complete your journey." she said, her voice strangely soft.

"What are you talking about?" he asked breathlessly.

"Your symptoms are not very pronounced, but they're there without a doubt. I do not know why you have held out so long." she slowly replied. "It seems to be progressing slower than usual in your case. But the result will be the same, nonetheless."

Merlin swallowed. "I don't understand." He turned away from her.

"It's how it starts." She paused. "First people have a couple of nightmares. Then they start hurting themselves in their dreams. Only slight injuries, barely noticeable, but they're still there. And in the end, they fall asleep and don't wake up." Tesni thought again for a couple of seconds. Merlin didn't interrupt. He had learned that it took her some time to formulate an idea properly.

"I have witnessed it many times. I don't just take care of this village but also a couple of the surrounding ones. It's the same everywhere."

"But I didn't receive any injuries!" Merlin objected.

She wordlessly pointed at his left hand. The young warlock raised it into the flickering light of the candle. A long pink scar was covering the back of his hand, like a wound had recently healed there.

"That wasn't there before, was it?" she asked.

Merlin stayed silent. He had found it strange that he should be plagued by nightmares so much when he never before had, but he hadn't dared to think about it further. Besides, for the most part people had just fallen asleep and Merlin was very much awake. Gaius probably would have discovered the pattern Tesni had, if he hadn't fallen prey to it himself before he could draw any conclusions. He felt slight anger at the Great Dragon who had given him the enchantment for the antidote but not told him that in his case it was completely useless. Because he was already affected.

"How many in the village have it?" he asked, not wanting to talk about his condition. He could feel her frown without even looking at her face.

"Can't be sure but probably all."

Merlin gasped. All?

"They don't know it yet. I didn't see a point in panicking them uselessly." Her bare feet were scratching the earth beneath them, slowly moving back and forth. "It's but a matter of days and the entire village will fall asleep."

"What about you?" He asked. She shrugged.

"I am not showing any symptoms yet. Probably soon." He couldn't help but wonder about the calmness of her voice. A night bird's shriek cut through the night and Merlin jumped. Tesni didn't move. That's when it hit him. Her behaviour _was_ familiar. It was just like Urick's, an old man back in Ealdor. She was once again facing away from him. He placed a hand on her shoulder and when she turned around, gently took the candle from her hand. He raised it up to his face. His mouth, to be precise.

"I know this isn't a very polite question," he said very quietly, "but are you deaf?" With the candle light stinging in his eyes, he couldn't see her expression too clearly, but he thought he saw her mouth twitch and her feet stopped scratching the earth.

"Yes," she finally answered. He had been right. She didn't react to so many questions because she hadn't been able to hear them.

"I see," he said. "Why didn't you say so?" he added after a while, "I mean, it's easier when people know, isn't it?" Tesni hesitated.

"People..." she said, "when you're deaf, somehow they think you're also simple. It changes when they get to know you, usually, but..."

"But Arthur and I don't know you," he finished for her. She nodded. He didn't blame her. It was hard being different and even harder when others thought you were useless. And he should know.

"Well, I don't think you're simple," he said, "though I think Arthur thinks you're crazy with the weird way you were acting." She made a strangled sound and he grinned.

"I can help you slow it down, you know? The illness," she said, changing the topic abruptly. Merlin blinked. If there was a way, wouldn't the Great Dragon have told him about it? Then again, the ancient beast seemed to take some kind of twisted amusement in making his life as difficult as possible.

"How?"

"The illness kills you in your sleep. Best solution is to not sleep." she said with a shrug "There's a potion that allows you stay awake for days. But the side-effects are not pleasant.

"Headaches, trouble concentrating, hallucinations. Motion will be impaired. The longer you stay awake, the worse it will get. The potion itself gives you nausea and with some people spasms. But you'd be awake," she continued. Time passed by as Merlin thought about what she was saying. She took the candle from him and rose, picking up her blanket.

"You don't have to decide now. You're not at that point yet. I can give you some of the potion and tell you which symptoms to look out for so you know when to start taking it. The gods know we need a way to stop this thing." She turned and walked back into the house, leaving the door wide open. Merlin listened as her footsteps crossed the small room. Then all noises died down.

The young warlock sat outside for a long time, seemingly deep in thought. In truth though, his mind was wiped completely blank. Finally he also rose from the bench and followed Tesni's example. As he lay down on his makeshift bed he postponed all thinking to the next day. Soon after he slipped back into uneasy dreams.

Arthur turned in his bed, eyes wide open, to face the wall. The conversation outside had been quiet and he had not been able to make out everything. But he had gotten the gist of it. Merlin had been having nightmares. That wasn't news to Arthur. The incident in Gaius' chambers and spending several nights on the road to witness his servant wake up gasping and shaking to every single one of them, sometimes several times in one night, had alarmed him to that much. Because he did not know how to ask Merlin about it, lest he should receive the same reaction as he had before, he had pretended not to see. Sometimes the vague thought had crossed his mind...but he hadn't dared to draw the same cold conclusion as a stranger now had. Because he didn't want it to be so, and maybe if he just ignored it, it would disappear. But he could not longer ignore it. An icy hand tugged at his heart as he finally said it to himself.

Merlin was sick. 

~/~/~

Please do review. I am dying to know what you think of it.


	8. Middleduction

Hello everyone,

I hate to disappoint you, this isn't a new chapter, though it is a good approximation where length is concerned, it's just a rather long winded rant/request. Though, to pacify those that are now enraged over my insolence, the **next chapter** is in the finishing stages and just needs some polishing, so it should be up **sometime tonight**.

Getting to the point now. First, the **rant** (alongside some **clarifications**):

While I was writing this chapter, I remembered that with Tesni's character I might be venturing on some shaky ground. My personal experience with hearing impairment extends no further than a mildly annoying tinnitus (a meagre ringing that really doesn't count), which is to say: I don't have any.

First thing I need to say, I'm a bit confused on political correct terminology. Some of my sources say that it's perfectly all right to say deaf, some say it's a mortal insult and suggest one use 'hard-of-hearing' or 'hearing impaired'. Other sources claim that 'deaf' is the way to go and that 'hearing impaired' is a mortal insult and anybody who uses it should be fed to the wolves. All of this confusion is aggravated by the fact that in German, which is what we speak where I live (that being Germany: Surprise!), there are pretty much just two words that are socially acceptable and there's been fairly little controversy about it, to my knowledge. While I doubt that anybody would want me to fry for using an outdated or controversial word, I did want to mention that I spent some time fretting about proper terminology. Some squirming and hair-pulling was involved, too. In the end, I settled for using 'deaf'. For the most part, because I can't imagine medieval characters spouting terms like 'hearing impaired', 'hard-of-hearing' or much bother with contemporary political correctness at all. Also, Wikipedia assures me that it is the way to go and when in doubt...(I hear my prof shriek with outrage). So in any case.

Obviously I did some research before tackling Tesni, though I played around with her character a lot and her deafness is a fairly recent addition, so I'm still learning as I go along. I am conducting some fascinating experiments by plugging my ears and venturing into town. Holy cow, that makes for some...strange...experiences. It's totally different than listening to music via earphones. Though I can't stand staying 'plugged' for too long, because like I said somewhere at the beginning of this masterpiece of intro- er, middleduction, I have a tinnitus. Without any background noise, it soon drives me crazy. And I did have that almost encounter with a car that was intent on getting friendly. I think it announced its intentions with some noise – which I didn't hear. After which I thought it wise to limit my experiments to the pedestrian zone.

My room mate was very much put out when I didn't hear the doorbell and missed the delivery of her new netbook. She informed me I'm a bloody moron (well, she was more subtle about it, but I read between the lines) and punished me by making me pick it up at the package station. She also informs me that I'm awfully jumpy these days, because I have literally started jumping (and yelping) whenever I see a motion out of the corner of an eye. Two days ago, I ungracefully landed on the floor, because I tired to escape one of my own hair-strands. I never realised how much I relied on sound identify approaching 'danger'. Talk about primal instincts and fight-or-flight. Though sound never warned me about my hair, so why I have started jumping at that is anybody's guess (though it can get really vicious, you should see me in the morning. On second thought: DON'T!).

Though, you know, the more I do it, the more I get used to it and interestingly, when I'm in plugged-mode, I _see_ a lot of things I might have missed otherwise. I'm going to continue doing it, I think, till I'm finished with Maere or until I get to second base with another vehicle.

Phew. So much for the rant. Now comes the **request** part:

As so often in works of fiction, I am taking some artistic license. Probably a lot of artistic license. But I don't intend on selling you a pig for a dwarfed short-snout elephant. So if by any chance one of you guys is deaf themselves and wouldn't mind helping out with Tesni's character, I would really really appreciate it if you contact me. Same goes for anybody who has second-hand experience with family or friends. Or if you know a fanfic-reading person that is deaf and might not be entirely averse to sitting down for a chat (er, email session, or something). My ear-plug experiments go a long way in helping with my research, but they fall a little short in the human interaction department. I can't really reconstruct people's reactions to a deaf person, since all my friends and acquaintances know that I'm not. There's probably more to it than the odd looks I get from cashiers when I crane my neck to see the price of my purchase on those little screen devices. There's a deaf community in the town where I live that holds meetings at the university twice a month, but I didn't think barging in there to do research for fanfiction was such a great idea.

In any case, 'nuff said. This middleduction is approaching critical mass. I'm off to polishing the next chapter until it's all shiny and sparkly.

Cheers, C.


	9. And Then There Were Three

_Sorry everyone, I got sick and my head turned to mush these past two days. Here comes the update. This time it's un-beta-ed. Please forgive mistakes. As one reviewer pointed out, the dialect last chapter was a bit difficult to muddle through. I spent so much time researching it, I didn't catch on. This chapter I tried to tone it down. Enjoy!_

/~/~/

**Chapter 8: And Then There Were Three**

Arthur had not been able to fall asleep for hours after Merlin's breathing had become shallow and regular. He listened to the sound, his mind racing. It was really just one thought that was bouncing from one corner of his mind to another. Merlin was sick. It had hit him hard, harder than he had ever thought possible. Every time he closed his eyes he remembered his servant, laughing, joking, poking fun at him just to see him suddenly lying still, a dreadful wound somewhere on his limp body, the mocking amusement gone from his cold eyes. He swallowed hard and stared into the quiet darkness of the room, his ears picking up on every single sound from the ground where Merlin lay.

How could Iestyn have missed this? He, who had examined everybody...but then Arthur remembered. He had ordered him to examine the knights, the nobles first, so that he could decide whom to send out for the Maere. The servants were to be examined after the most pressing issue had been dealt with. The prince groaned inwardly and thrust himself to the other side, pulling at the blanket which suddenly seemed to smother him. He had not wasted a single thought on the possibility that Merlin could have been infected. How could he have been so inattentive? He should have picked up on it, even back in Camelot.

He punched his pillow into a better shape. And on the road, when he noticed that his servant continued to have nightmares, again, he had ignored the signs. He had been so busy worrying about Camelot, thinking about the route, trying to imagine what the Maere would look like, that he had shoved any other unpleasant thought aside. He turned on his back, staring at the ceiling. His eyes, now used to the darkness, saw a lone spider creeping around her net.

He had been so stupid. How could he not have realized just how drastic the change in Merlin was? Instead he had been annoyed at his odd behaviour, because it had inconvenienced him. He should have known that Merlin wasn't the type to have nightmares on a regular basis. Then again, maybe he was. How could Arthur possibly know, when he had never taken the time to actually get to know him? Everything he knew about Merlin, he had found out by accident. The young man never volunteered information about himself, except for when it was to serve others. He had never even bothered to ask him where he was from and he had not learned until Merlin's mother had come to court, pleading for his father's help. If that hadn't happened, would he still think that Merlin had just somehow materialized out of thin air?

He punched his pillow, which was bulging under his head uncomfortably, again. It didn't help, so he turned around once more, almost falling out of the narrow bed. In a corner of his mind he noticed that the bedsheets smelled of herbs. It annoyed him.

Merlin on the other hand, knew almost everything there was to know about him. He asked and listened, picked up on the smallest of his mood-swings, called him his friend over and over. And in turn Arthur nagged and told him to mind his place.

Arthur suddenly felt hot beneath his blanket and picked another fight with it. Finally he had kicked it off. He lay in the darkness for a while, a weird sluggish feeling spreading from the pit of his stomach. He sat up and looked at Merlin's form on the ground. How the hell was he going to face him tomorrow? That guy's idiotic habit of keeping everything to himself was at the root of this dilemma. The chances of him mentioning it himself were more than just slim, they were virtually non-existent. Blasted idiot.

Yet, Arthur knew now. Was he supposed to just act like everything was fine? He ran the fingers of both hands through his hair, resting his elbows on his knees. He had a good mind of going over there and shake every little stupid secret and omission out of Merlin. But then, once he told him, what could he do? Pat him on the back and say something along the lines 'tough luck, mate'? Of course he was not indifferent towards Merlin, far from it. He had given up that particular pretence long ago. At least to himself. If he hadn't been a prince or Merlin a serving boy, he would have called the young man his – probably best – friend. But as it was, he had just gone on refusing to put a proper name on their relationship. He cared and that was enough. However thinking of Merlin as the ever happy-go-lucky buffoon who tripped over his own feet just trying to stand without a name for the relationship was one thing. Comforting a Merlin who woke up with silent screams on his lips was an entirely different issue. Comfort was a privilege only proper friends could claim- and he had made such a big point of never calling them that.

He threw himself on his back and yanked the blanket over his head. And then, thinking of Merlin dying...was unspeakable.

His thoughts kept running in circles as he kept turning in his bed. At some point or other he must have fallen asleep after all, dreaming of dead eyes, because the next thing he knew was a ray of light tickling him under his nose. He suppressed a sneeze as he opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. The spider from the night before was gone. Arthur felt exhausted. Glumly he realised that he had just lost a night's sleep over a man. Now wasn't that just perfect.

He heard Merlin shuffle out from under his blanket on the ground. He turned a little and saw him ruffle through his hair, which resulted in it sticking up to all sides, yawn and blink around the room in apparent confusion. Before his eyes fell on Arthur, the prince quickly closed his, pretending to still be asleep. He had not yet decided how he should go about his new knowledge. Merlin muttered something rude sounding under his breath and Arthur heard him get up. Something crashed and after a stifled yell and a couple of muffled curses, he heard the door fall shut.

He drew back his blanket and sat up, wincing a little as his shoulder stung at the sudden weight he put on his arm. He ran his fingers through his hair, trying to flatten it, and grimaced when he pulled out a couple of leaves and small sticks. He didn't even have a hairbrush, because that was in his pack, alongside all the other useful things that he possessed.

The door opened and Arthur's mind started racing to adjust to his normal self, so that he could treat Merlin the same as ever. It came to a halt when Tesni entered, looking thoroughly pissed off. His mind started racing again. What was it now?

"Birds," she muttered under her breath, "Raccoons. Wild boars. There isn't a single animal in those woods that didn't have a go. I hope they all get indigestion. Maggots! Can you believe it. Of all the..." she slammed a grubby bag on the table and regarded it gloomily. A couple of flowers were sticking out at one end, the heads drooping. The bag itself showed clear signs of having been run over by at least three kinds of forest wildlife. "Birds! Maybe foxglove isn't such a bad..." she froze when she noticed Arthur sitting up in his bed.

"Good morning," he said lamely.

"I was collecting these yesterday when I ran across you guys," she huffed, pointing accusatory at the bag "I left them behind and...But_ look at this_!" She snatched at something that was wiggling its way out of the bag and held it up. It was a very ugly, very fat mouse, scrambling at the empty air to escape the grip that firmly held it by its tail. "_Mice!_ Mice don't even _like_ Starmaiden!" A look of such utter indignation was plastered all across her face that Arthur couldn't help but laugh. She shot him a poisonous glance and he stopped.

"Sorry," he said, "I know it's probably not funny." Tesni sat down on one of the chairs by the table, still holding the mouse by its tail.

"No it isn't," she muttered. "They bloom only once every ten days and the season is ending. This might have been the last time this year"

"I'm really sorry," Arthur repeated. Tesni sighed.

"Me too," she replied. Then she held up the squealing mouse. "But not as sorry as this guy is going to be. They can't digest Starmaiden." She gave the poor animal a little shake. Then she seemed to remember whom she was talking to and flushed.

"I didn't...I mean...anyway," she muttered. Whether she meant to say something else or not, Arthur did never learn, because at that very moment there was a stifled yelp from the door. Arthur turned around. Merlin was standing on the threshold, looking at the mouse with the same dismay that Tesni had regarded her bag with.

"What?" asked Arthur.

"It's...it's a mouse," Merlin said.

"Yes, Merlin, thank you for pointing that out," Arthur remarked sardonically.

"Why is there a mouse?" asked Merlin.

"Apparently it ate Tesni's Starmaiden." Merlin blinked.

"But mice don't even like...never mind that, can you _please_ get it out of here?" Arthur stared.

"Merlin," he said slowly, "you aren't afraid of mice, are you?" Merlin's ears glowed red and he spluttered.

"I'm not afraid of them. I just...I don't like them very much," he replied, his hand tugging at his neckerchief. Arthur grinned.

"I'm not!" Merlin insisted. Arthur's grin grew wider. Even Tesni's mouth started twitching. The red from his ears spread to Merlin's face.

"It's just a mouse," Arthur said trying to keep his composure, "and I distinctly remember you not having any problems with rats."

"Rats! Rats are different. They're bigger! But mice, they're...they have these tiny feet that crawl all over you and those disgusting little noses that they stick in places where they don't belong and those tails are just...stop laughing, damn it!" Arthur had lost the fight and was now convulsing with laughter on the bed.

"It isn't funny. You never woke up with one of these...these _things_ on your face," Merlin complained.

"No, I'm sure that was a very traumatising experience," Arthur choked out.

"Don't come near me!" Merlin shrieked. Tesni was halfway to the door, still holding the mouse in her hand.

"I can't get it out of here without getting _out_ of here," she remarked dryly. Arthur was hit with another fit of giggles.

"Well, stay there until I'm not...here," Merlin said waving his hand at her and started creeping into the room, his back pressed against the wall to stay as far away from the offending rodent as he could. Arthur swore he felt a rib crack. Tesni waited patiently until he had reached the farthest corner from the door, then leaned outside and threw it out. Merlin cast a suspicious glance at the door.

"It isn't going to come back, is it?" he asked dubiously. Arthur buried his face in his hands and tried not to choke. Finally he managed to get himself somewhat back under control.

"That..." he chuckled, "that makes up for the wolf-thing and the rat stew."

"You made me eat that rat stew," Merlin grumbled, "there's nothing to be made up for." Tesni closed the door and turned around, banishing the last remainders of a grin from her face.

"Breakfast?" she asked.

"Yes, please," Arthur said with as straight a face as possible, "mouse-stew would be great." And he went into another fit of laughter.

/~/

When Arthur returned from washing up at the well, breakfast was sitting on the table. It wasn't mouse-stew, regrettably, but your average porridge seasoned with herbs and accompanied by some bread-and-cheese as well as a mug of steaming tea for each of them. Throughout the meal, Arthur suddenly started grinning and Merlin shot him poisonous glances. Tesni remained silent for the most part and as time wore on, she became increasingly more thoughtful. When they left her hut, Merlin and Arthur with nothing but their clothes and Arthur's sword, Tesni carrying her basket, she had gone back to ignoring any and all attempts at striking up conversation. After a while, Arthur and Merlin gave up on it and contended themselves with saving her from tumbling into ditches and tripping over her own feet. Last night, when they had only seen her moving around within her own four walls, had failed to reveal her uncanny talent for running into things.

Her silence sobered up Arthur as well and he found his thoughts straying back to the fragments of conversation he had overheard last night. Merlin, as well, had gone quiet. To an onlooker they must have looked like quite the brooding party.

When they walked past a small farm, Tesni stopped. Her eyes narrowed as she looked at the yard, which, except for a couple of stray chickens and a cat bathing in the morning sun, was all but deserted. A couple of cows mooed in a barn. For a moment it seemed as if she wanted to say something, but then she just shook her head and moved on. Arthur didn't understand what had caught her attention, but Merlin turned to look back at the farm, a puzzled expression on his face.

"What is it?" Arthur asked, when they resumed their walk. Merlin shook his head.

"By this time, the farmer should have driven the cattle up to the pastures. It's weird he didn't."

"He might have overslept," said Arthur, who at best had only vague ideas about farming. Merlin gave him an exasperated look and rolled his eyes.

"People here don't exactly have the leisure to sleep in. Anybody who has been to the country should know that."

"You grew up in the country and you don't seem to have any trouble sleeping in," Arthur pointed out. Merlin grinned.

"That's because your bad habits keep rubbing off on me."

"Doubtful," Arthur retorted, "now that I think about it, your mother probably knew you wouldn't make it as a farmer, so she sent you to Gaius." Merlin laughed, but there was a strange undertone in his voice. Arthur paused. Why _had_ Merlin come to Camelot? He had met his mother on several occasions now. Last time had been after a scouting trip across the border to Escetia. The kingdom was in upheaval after Cenred's death at Morgause's hand. The country's nobility had been divided into factions backing up three or four candidates, all of which felt entitled to the throne. Segoncaer, the capital, was said to have burned twice already, although very little was actually known. Apparently the man that had seized it had shut it off completely, nobody in or out. In the countryside, on the other hand, the warring parties were attacking each other's lands in an attempt to ruin their opponent's financial resources and in that, undermine their political standing. The once prosperous country was now filled with charred fields and destroyed farms. It had made Arthur sick. A ruler should be concerned with his subject's welfare, not use them like pawns in a political game of chess. While Merlin hadn't said anything, Arthur knew he was worried about Ealdor, so he had decided to take a detour. Luckily, none of the aspiring rulers had had the bright idea to move troops that close to Camelot's borders yet and the village had been spared thus far. Hunith had been delighted at the surprise visit. During their stay, Arthur had once again been reaffirmed in his impression, that her decision to send her son away hadn't been an entirely voluntary one. "Things just changed," Merlin had once said. Yet another thing he had never bothered to investigate any further.

They were now passing the first houses of the village and Tesni's pace quickened as she threw glances at the empty street and closed window shutters. When they reached the deserted market square, she stopped abruptly.

"This isn't right," muttered Merlin, and Arthur had to agree. While he did not completely discard the possibility of one single farmer sleeping in, he thought it highly unlikely that the entire village should have decided to take a sabbatical. At this time of day, the market square should be filled with craftsmen and traders. Instead, the only movement in the small venue stemmed from a rag slowly creeping across the main street.

"Do you hear anything?" asked Tesni. Merlin shook his head.

"Nothing," he replied.

Tesni put down her basket and turned on her own axis, inspecting the entire square closely. Arthur's hand shot forward mechanically to catch her by the elbow when she stepped on the hem of her skirt and tripped. Frankly, the girl was worse on her feet than Merlin. It seemed she lacked the crucial ability of moving and doing _anything_ else at the same time.

She mumbled something along the lines of a thank you – or maybe she cursed him with pocks, Arthur really didn't know – and continued with her inspection of the square. Arthur followed her glance. An abandoned broomstick was lying in front of one house, the potter's shop seemed to have been deserted in the middle of opening up. A heap of marbles was lying next to a couple of holes dug into the mud in front of the well.

He perked up when he heard the sound of hooves on trampled earth and turned to face the direction they seemed to come from. A mule was closing in on them, dragging behind it a cart filled with dung. Whoever had strapped the animal to the cart had left before they could finish, for a couple of straps were dangling between its legs. Merlin walked up to it and grabbed the reigns. Softly scratching the mule behind an ear, he unfastened the cart with his free hand, then tied the animal to a pole. When he had finished, he threw a quizzical glance at Tesni, who had directed her steps towards the cart and was now feeling the dung with one hand. Arthur wrinkled his nose.

"A couple of hours," the girl muttered, "probably just after sunrise." She wiped her hand on her skirt, then looked surprised at the smudges it left on the cloth. A sudden gust swept through the houses and the rag fluttered into the air like a big ugly bird. It settled down on top of the cart, sending a swarm of flies up to buzz around her head. Her solitary figure blurred before Arthur as the wind drove tears to his eyes. He blinked.

"Whatever happened was sudden," Merlin said into the ominous silence. The mule whinnied in agreement.

"We should check the houses," Arthur suggested. Tesni tipped her nose and nodded slowly. Her face was strangely void of expression.

"I'll take this side, Merlin, you go that way," Arthur commanded and pointed to his right. "Tesni, is there any place where the villagers would go to meet up?"

"The pub," she answered after some deliberation.

"Then you go check that." She stared at him for a while, then shrugged and walked off. Merlin and Arthur followed her example, parting in different directions. Arthur suppressed a queasy feeling in his gut.

/~/

The first door Merlin tried was locked. He glanced over his shoulder and found that Arthur and Tesni had disappeared from sight. Holding a hand over the lock, he muttered a couple of words. There was a bright flash and a wisp of smoke rose from a charred spot almost two inches from the lock that had been his target. Merlin frowned as he regarded it. What the hell? He held his hand over the lock again and repeated his command to open. This time, the door swung open with a screech. Merlin's frown deepened, but he put his deliberations aside for now.

He stepped inside and flinched as the door fell shut behind him. It took his eyes a while to adjust to the new lighting. Even then he could only guess the outlines of the room he had entered. The closed shutters permitted only a few rays of sun to draw lines on the wooden floor. Everything else was tinged in blacks and greys. He took a couple of hesitant steps, feeling the ground for obstacles with his feet and reaching for the wall to his right. Slowly he discovered his way to the window and unlocked the shutters. The light that suddenly flooded the room revealed it to be of humble proportions. A rough cupboard to his left had been left open and a flimsy wisp of smoke rose from a fire pit in the far right corner. A staircase without handrail led up to a second floor. On a table in the middle of the room, breakfast was standing abandoned. The amount of dishes revealed the number of inhabitants to be three. He stepped up to it and glanced over the cold porridge and cheese-plate in the centre. It had not yet been touched, but one of the mugs was half emptied. He sniffed the contents. It was dark ale, watered down by the looks of it and low on spirit. Not the kind one drank in the pub but rather the variety wives served their families with every meal to supplement their diet. A sudden ringing behind his back caused him to startle and the mug slipped from his hand. The burned clay shattered into countless pieces and a dark puddle seeped onto the ground. It reminded him of blood streaming out of a wound. He quickly averted his eyes and scanned the room for the source of the sound. A chime was swaying in the open window, little pieces of glass and stone clonking against one another. He heaved a sigh of relief. The spooky atmosphere of the deserted village had agitated his nerves.

Chiding himself for his jumpiness, he walked up to the window and regarded the chime. Up close he saw that every piece of stone had a small pentagram etched into it. A brass bell hung in the middle, ringing lightly in the breeze. Merlin looked at the door frame. There, too, a pentagram had been etched into the wood. Brass and endless knots covering all entrances- protective amulets against witchcraft. Merlin stared at the small chime with pity. If the inhabitants of the house had known that the endless knot was an ancient symbol used by the Old Religion to depict the entirety of their gods, they might not have been so eager to use it for protection against sorcery.

He turned away, the charm clonking accusatory in his wake as he climbed the stairs to the upper floor. The first door he opened led to a tiny bedchamber, as empty as the room downstairs. Who ever lived here hadn't come around to organize the ruffled bedsheets before whatever had caused them to abandon the house had struck. A big stone with a hole in the middle dangled from the ceiling over the bed. The hagstone, he had learned during his research at the library, was a tell-tale amulet to ward off the Maere. Unfortunately, it was just as useless as any of the other protective charms he had found along with it. This just once again proved the lack of foresight Uther had shown when he forbade all knowledge about magic. Had the townspeople been aware of the tales surrounding the mythical creature, he should not have wasted valuable hours riffling through ancient books trying to rediscover what was common knowledge in the outlying regions.

Merlin left the room and tried the next door. It revealed itself to be a weaving chamber. Two tall weighted-warp looms were standing to both sides of the window, both with half finished fabrics attached to them. He touched the cloth. It was high quality, meant for sale, not the rough wool that provided home made clothing for peasants. He imagined husband and wife sitting in this chamber as the sun stood high in the zenith, producing the fabrics they would take to markets in larger towns once spring came. The small room would be filled with the clonking of the looms and the occasional words exchanged between the spouses. The third inhabitant, whom Merlin supposed to be their child, would probably sit in the corner over there, where a basket with threads in various colours stood and organize them for its parents. When it was old enough, a third loom would be added to this chamber and it would learn its parent's trade.

He left the chamber and paused before the last door. He was sure it would be the child's room. The family must be comparatively well off, for there to be separate sleeping chambers. Most peasant families slept in one room. But the fabrics on the loom definitely would go at a high price, so it wasn't that hard to imagine that these weavers should have a comely income.

Merlin pushed open the door and once again found himself staring into pitch black darkness. The shutters to the window had not yet been opened. The mother probably would have risen well before dawn to prepare breakfast for her family, while the child was allowed to catch half an hour more sleep. He stepped inside carefully, looking for a streak of light to indicate the location of the window. His nostrils caught a smell that faintly reminded him of Elyan's forgery. He could not quite place it, but for some reason his heart sped up and something ugly reared its head in the back of his mind. His feet were making a hollow sound on the wooden planks as he walked further into the room. Even though he was feeling for obstacles, suddenly his foot caught something on the floor. He found himself falling, slipping, groping into the darkness to find something to hold onto. His outstretched hands met something soft and he grabbed it. There was a ripping sound as he toppled to the ground, still holding a piece of cloth between his fingers.

He hit the floor with a muffled bang and an ungraceful "umpf,". His knees grew numb under the impact. A subdued curse escaped his lips as he rubbed the throbbing places. Then he noticed the wetness seeping through his clothes from the floor. The strange smell intensified. Iron, thought Merlin, with a trace of rust and lemon. His stomach turned, as once again the ugly thing in his mind snaked through his thoughts.

He rose and groped his way to the window. He could have used magic, but somehow he was afraid of hearing his own voice disrupt the eerie silence. Finally his hands found the hatch he was looking for. His fingers, slick with the wet substance, fumbled for a while, then he swung open the shutters. Glistening light blinded him for a moment and he had to shut his eyes. When he turned around, colourful spots danced in his vision, preventing him from discerning what he was looking at. Then the spots faded.

He suppressed a cry of both surprise and horror when he beheld the scene that opened up before his eyes. The hand that he had pressed against his mouth trembled and his nose revolted at the proximity of the smell. He ripped it away and frantically rubbed it against his trousers. He heard a groan and realised that the voice was his.

The sun was illuminating a small chamber. Dust was dancing in the air, following the rays of light pointing accusingly at the crumpled figures.

The woman had collapsed over the bed. Her hair hung in her face, but it could not conceal the cold blue eyes staring at Merlin, wide open in surprise. Her head rested on an outstretched arm, reaching for the huddled figure in the bed. The other arm was dangling over the edge. A thin trickle of blood had coloured the sleeves of her plain brown dress and was now dripping to the floor. It was a slow dripping, for the blood had already started congealing and was now thick and heavy. With a splosh, barely audible and yet as forceful as a scream in Merlin's ears, a drop loosened from a fingertip and fell to the ground.

The man lay in the middle of the room, surrounded by a sea of red. It was him whom Merlin had tripped over. His footprints were as clearly visible in the blood as if he had walked through mud and where he had fallen, the wood was covered with red smudges.

Merlin forced himself to first step up to the woman, then the man, and measure their heartbeats. A tingling sensation remained where his fingers had touched their icy skin. He drew his sleeves over his hands, hoping to erase the traces of the contact with the comfortingly familiar fabric.

Then he let his glance wander toward the bundle on the bed. The blanket was drawn over the still form. Where he knew the head must be, it was bloody. He must have stood over the formless shape for minutes before he could finally bring himself to extend a hesitant hand towards it. His fingers grew numb as they groped for the hem. He felt rough wool, warm and sticky. Again he paused, his arm outstretched, his eyes glued to the rust-red stain. He took a deep quivering breath and drew back the blanket.

The sight almost knocked the air out of his lungs. It was a little girl, attired in a white nightgown as children wear them. She reminded him of a carefully crafted doll. Her thin blonde hair was carefully braided in two pigtails. Soft fluff at the temples glowed in the morning sun, creating a halo around her head and veins could be seen around her nostrils and forehead, where the skin was almost see-through. The world had broken the liberal promise of great beauty by callously drawing a large gash across her throat. The button nose and full cheeks would never mature to charm countless suitors, the small hands would never learn how to handle the loom as masterly as her parents' had. Those cornflower blue eyes, staring at the ceiling, would never glitter with laughter or shed tears again. Merlin could not bear to look into them for much longer. He tried closing her eyes, but they kept popping up to look at him, as if they knew that everything would be over once they were closed. After several attempts he finally succeeded.

The room spun around Merlin and he felt as if the walls were closing in on him. The stale air, soaked with the smell of iron, threatened to smother him.

As if he were a sailor on a storm-battered ship, he staggered through the corridor, grabbing at the walls for support. He toppled down the stairs, past the table with the broken mug, past the endless knot on the door frame, out into the bright light. There he fell, to his knees, retching and coughing. Tears stung in his eyes. He lost his balance and found himself sitting on the ground, leaning against the house wall, fighting for breath.

How long it took until the shouting drew him back to the present, away from the nightmarish scene in that room, he did not know. Now he could hear it somewhere close by, though muffled by walls. It was the voice of a male, shrill with agitation.

He wiped his mouth with a trembling hand and picked himself up, still swaying. Then he set his steps to follow the sounds. As he drew nearer, he could filter enough of the thick accent to make out the words "she killed 'er!" and strings of insults. Finally he discovered the door that seemed to be the source of the noise. It belonged to a bent building, sitting at the far end of the market square like a weather-beaten dwarf. Creaking in the light wind, a rusty sign spelled "Ode Thom's". Below it, an artist of questionable skill had drawn something that looked like a cross between a black worm and a cat.

"I didn't want 'er in my 'owse, I told yow so!" the man screeched. A wailing like a dog howling at the moon pierced the air and Merlin discerned the words "Bessie! My Bessie!" between the cries.

He pushed the door open and entered. A group of people was turning their backs to him and blocking his view. To his left and right, bandaged men, women and children were sitting. Some were sobbing, some were quiet and some were turning their heads towards the source of the commotion, their expression a mix of curiosity and fear. The pacifying accents of a man mixed in with the screaming, interspersed with whispers from the crowd. Merlin pushed his way to the front. A man whose grey streaked hair and shrivelled skin made him look older than his stature betrayed was facing Tesni. He was nursing a bleeding arm, she was holding bandages in one hand and a vial in the other. Her face was set in a kind of grim determination which reminded Merlin oddly of Arthur going up against Uther. The man that had picked up Tesni the night before, stood at some distance, rubbing his chin helplessly.

"Come on, mo mon, don't be a fool," he muttered, "T'ay 'er fault, yower Bessie dyin'. Think of yower little worm, Lark, an' don't be a bleedin' fool." Lark wheeled around to face the speaker.

"She killed 'er, she an' 'er wiles, I know it! I know it," he repeated with a hiss towards Tesni, "an' I know how to deal with wenches like yow." He stabbed at the girl with a gnarled finger. Her lips pressed into a thin white line, but her posture remained defiant. Then she suddenly shrugged and turned around.

"Maude?" A very pretty woman of about the same age as Merlin stepped forward and Tesni handed basket and vial to her. "You do it."

"Now, ark," started Vaugh, but Tesni shook her head and he sighed.

Lark sunk to the ground and whimpered, rocking to and fro. Maude shook back her tumble of blonde curls and knelt down beside him. Vaugh watched the scene for a while, then he patted Tesni's shoulder and turned away. Merlin noticed that his hands were both raw. They left a smear of blood on Tesni's dress. The girl frowned at it. Her eyes caught Merlin's and the crease between her brows deepened even further. She gave him a curt jerk of her chin and he followed her and Vaugh to a quiet corner of the room.

"Let's see to those," Tesni said and pointed at the large man's hands. Vaugh looked at them as if he was seeing them for the first time and nodded. Both of them settled at a table and Tesni started dabbing the wounds gently with a damp cloth. Merlin took a seat beside her.

"What's going on?" he asked, and then, remembering, "The house, I saw..." he could not bring himself to finish. Tesni, who had only looked up from Vaugh's hands to see him speak, nodded.

"Half the village got struck down, the other half is infected," she said in a low voice, so that only Merlin and Vaugh could hear her. Merlin gasped.

"But you said it would take days?" She nodded again.

"So how...?" Tesni frowned and shrugged. Vaugh rubbed his chin with a now bandaged hand. Merlin was just about to inquire further, when he heard the door creak open and saw a familiar frame step inside. It took Arthur a while to take in the scene. He looked about as bad as Merlin had felt upon discovering the dead family. His mouth was pressed into a thin line and he had a distinctive green tinge around the nose. When he saw Merlin, he pushed his way through to their little group and sank down on the last free chair.

"I thought we were supposed to meet at the well," he said, tiredness blanketing all reproach in his voice. Merlin nodded explanatory into the room.

"Are these all the survivors?"

"I think so" Merlin muttered quietly.

"What the hell happened here?"

"I don't know. Tesni seems to think it's the Maere's influence," he said. Tesni was still engrossed in bandaging Vaugh's left hand and couldn't see him speak. Vaugh however lifted a quizzical eyebrow and Arthur gave his servant a forbidding look.

"I thought we agreed that there is no need to panic people about mythical creatures sucking out their souls?" he asked in a subdued voice. Merlin smiled grimly.

"These people are about as panicked as it gets. Did you see the amount of protective charms everywhere?" he asked, indicating a pentagram etched into the window frame. Arthur sighed and drew a hand through his hair.

"No, I saw them," he replied. He had been trained in recognising these symbols from childhood, as they were used by superstitious peasants and sorcerers alike. If he was wondering how Merlin came about that knowledge, he gave no indication of it. Vaugh's eyes were narrowed at them.

"Yow ay just two random stray uns as 'er has rerked in, am yow?" he asked.

"No, they aren't," Tesni replied before either Arthur or Merlin had a chance to consider an answer. "They are here on King Uther's behalf." It was a good answer. It didn't reveal who precisely they were, but it explained their presence and their knowledge discreetly. Vaugh's eyebrows drew together and he cast Tesni a long look. She returned it evenly, though there was something anxious in her eyes. The big man rubbed his chin and sighed.

"Yow sure know 'ow to pick 'em, ma wench," he muttered. Red spots appeared on Tesni's cheeks, but she made no reply. Arthur threw another look into the room and suddenly he grew pale.

"Merlin, if this happened here...what if...?" he asked hoarsely. He didn't need to finish, the same thought had been on Merlin's mind since he had entered the pub.

"I'm sure everybody's fine back home," he said, but it sounded too much like he was trying to convince himself to be of any real comfort.

"I'm fairly sure it's a localised effect," Tesni, who had been watching the exchange, said into the ensuing silence. The men turned to her, a mixture of doubt and hope on their faces.

"Any particular reason for that?" asked Arthur.

"I...because he's..." Her eyes snapped to Merlin and he shook his head slightly. She frowned and sniffed.

"Anyway," she muttered darkly, "One comes to mind." Merlin exhaled. For an instant he had thought she would disregard his clue and tell Arthur about him. It wasn't like he particularly wanted to keep it a secret, it was just that he was a little apprehensive about his reaction. After all, he might decide that Merlin would slow them down and leave him behind. Without his magic though, the prince wouldn't stand a chance against the Maere- unfortunately,_ he_ didn't know that. Of course, if push came to shove, Merlin could always follow him secretly, it wouldn't be the first time, but if it was in any way possible, he would rather be spared the hassle.

Arthur also threw Merlin a look, and for some reason the crease between his brows deepened.

"We need to get going," he suddenly said and rose decisively. Merlin agreed. It didn't sit quite right with him to leave the village in such a state, but lest other villages should end up the same way, they needed to put an end to this Maere-business soon.

"About horses,..." he said slowly.

"Ah," Tesni said, "that. I mean," she practically squirmed in her chair, "the man that was going to rent out...he's dead. The son who inherits, he isn't going to...My word is useless with him."

"Oh..." Arthur made. Merlin felt his spirits sink.

"But Jessup had two. An' since 'e's dead, 'e ain't gonna need 'em no more," Vaugh jumped in. He pointed at a frail looking woman with bandages around her head, "I bet 'is wife is willin' to lend 'em to you for a coin or two. They're farm animals, but they'll get you to Maerdor awlroight." He turned to Tesni.

"Ark, wench, about what yow was sayin' yesterday, yow still thinks the same?" Tesni shot an apprehensive glance at Arthur. Merlin felt that they weren't particularly welcome to this conversation.

"Yes...?" she answered carefully, still eyeing them suspiciously.

"Well, I might have changed my mind abaht that, yow know," Vaugh continued, "We ay in no position to refuse 'elp, an them friends of yow might be able to help." Tesni tipped her nose, thinking.

"What about...?" she asked and made a gesture into the room, stopping at Lark, who was still whimpering in a corner. Maude was dressing his wounds. When she caught Tesni looking at her, she gave her an apologetic shrug. Vaugh rubbed his chin.

"Yow don't worry abaht that, I'll put their heads to rights," he muttered.

"I'll need to go to Meardor to send the message," Tesni considered, looking at the room full of injured people.

"We could send the message," Merlin quickly offered. It was the least they could do. Tesni looked rueful and shook her head.

"Has to be me," she replied.

"As I see it, ain't nothin' yow can do that my Maude cor do, if yow shows 'er how to do it," Vaugh said, not without a proud undertone in his voice. Tesni regarded the girl pensively and nodded slowly.

"I have brought everything she needs," she agreed, pointing at the basket she had brought, "Might be better, if I accompany you," she added to Arthur.

"'tis easy to get lost in our woods," Vaugh agreed, "An 'er knows them like no other." Tesni's scowl deepened, but this time Merlin thought he caught a trace of pride in her expression.

"Makin' that fairce again," Vaugh complained good naturedly, "I'll get yower owrses ready, then." The big man left and Tesni turned to approach Maude. The girl's face brightened considerably after a couple of words and she peeked inside the basket, eyes alight with curiosity. When Tesni started to pull out various vials and containers, and, by the looks of it, explain their application, Merlin turned to Arthur.

"You're not going to say anything about her riding with us?" he asked, trying to force a humorous tone.

"Why should I?" Arthur replied.

"Just for the sake of complaining?" Merlin suggested.

"Are you sure you aren't confusing me with you?" Arthur inquired dryly, "It's just half a day's ride, anyway. And that man is right, these woods look dratted complicated to get through, without a map. Which a certain somebody lost." Merlin ignored the jibe and nodded. It had been just his lucky gut feeling that had ultimately saved them from wandering around aimlessly for days to come. Not that Arthur would ever credit him with any such thing. There was a pause.

"You're feeling all right though, aren't you?" Arthur suddenly asked into the silence. Merlin almost choked on his own spit.

"Excuse me?" he asked, not quite believing his ears. Arthur kept his gaze glued to the floor. Merlin could have sworn he saw his ears glow.

"About the houses," he clarified.

"Oh, that. Yeah, sure," Merlin lied. He wouldn't need the Maere to have nightmares about that.

"What about you?"

"Of course I'm all right. I just wanted to make sure, since you're such a girl, wearing skirts, afraid of mice..." Arthur huffed, though Merlin thought the arrogance in his voice somewhat strained.

It took Vaugh just under fifteen minutes to get their horses ready. A couple of coins wandered from Arthur's hands into the dirty apron of the woman with the bandaged head and they left the pub. When they passed the door, Lark, who was now holding a screaming infant in his arms, drew it closer to his chest, looked straight at Tesni, and hissed, "Ah know 'ow to deal with wile ones as yow. Yow just wait till yow come back." The girl brushed past him wordlessly. Only a twitch in her face revealed that she had seen what he had said.

"Is he suggesting what I think he's suggesting?" asked Arthur quietly. His eyes rested on Tesni's back and there was a look in them Merlin knew all too well and didn't like very much. He bit his lip.

"Healers are the first ones to be blamed when things go wrong. Remember how everyone started screaming sorcery when that village was hit with pocks last spring?" he asked. Arthur grimaced. The accusations had proven to be malicious rumours spread by a farmer, whose three children had died despite the best efforts of the 'sorceress', a harmless – if somewhat batty – old herbalist. Actually, Merlin had been very much impressed by the careful investigation Arthur had conducted in the matter. He had looked like he was trying to disprove the claims with all his might, when just one year ago he might have had the woman executed without ceremony and Merlin had started to feel hopeful. Of course, that was before Morgana and Morgause happened.

"I remember," the prince said and his expression softened. He actually looked relieved when he turned away from the girl. Something in Merlin's mind somersaulted. Maybe the past three months had not erased all the progress Arthur had been making in shedding his preconceptions. And he_ had_ looked increasingly harassed as Uther ordered one pyre to be lit after the other once he had come out of his stupor. No, Arthur took no pleasure in seeing people burn and Merlin cursed first the Maere, then himself. His behaviour the past two weeks had been unacceptable.

They found three horses, ready and saddled, by the well. Vaugh gave Tesni, who regarded her mount with a very dark look a boost up.

"I..I might stay for one or two..." she said slowly, "to see. And if there's trouble." Vaugh nodded, making sense of her incomplete speech.

"We'll be awlroight 'ere," he said encouragingly. The girl pursed her lips, but shrugged. She grabbed her reigns and steered the horse past the well, Arthur and Merlin following suit.

/~/

As Tesni had said, the ride to Meardor took them the better half of the morning. The sun was standing high when they rode into the village. Tesni felt a sense of relieve when she was able to dismount, followed immediately by a sense of dread when she realised she'd have to make her way back to her village on her own. During the trip to Meardor, her horse had done all kinds of vicious things. Once, she could have sworn, it tried to run her into a tree. She had, to her great embarrassment, been saved by Merlin, who had grabbed at the reigns and steered the contrary animal back onto the road. Another time, it had stopped to gaze at its own reflection in a puddle. It had remained that way, the vain thing, until, to her even greater embarrassment, Prince Arthur had slapped it across the backside. After which Tesni had to hold on for dear life. She just didn't get along with horses. At all. How she would get back home was anybody's guess.

For now, however, she was standing on her own two feet. Not that it stopped her from almost tripping over the hem of her skirt when she tried to walk and attend to Prince Arthur's conversation at the same time. Almost, not due to her own meagre efforts at regaining her balance, but because he unceremoniously grabbed her by the scruff of her neck before she could tumble head first into a heap of horse-dung. She was horribly out of practice with the whole walking-and-talking-at-the -same-time thing. If she had ever been in practice, that was. After the night that had cost her her hearing, she had generally kept away from people. And just how, she thought with a uncharacteristic flare of peevishness, was she supposed to watch her feet _and_ somebody's face at the same time anyway?

"You go tell them, girl," muttered the voice sleepily. Of course there was no way she was going to do that. Instead, she muttered her thanks and returned her attention to his face. He was asking her about the general progress of the illness, again. She sighed. She had told him everything she knew five times over.

"While they are holding out on you," commented the voice.

"So what?" asked Tesni sharply, "they're hardly going to discuss matters of state with a random village healer apprentice."

"They don't seem to have any problems with squeezing a random village healer apprentice _about _matters of state. _Do ut des *_, as the Romans say."

"And look what that got them," muttered Tesni. She sniffed and pointed at a tall building, which unlike most of the others was built with stone, not wood.

"That's the herald's office," she informed the two men and directed her steps towards it. Inside she was met with the familiar smell of drying ink, old paper and a slight whiff of horse. The herald's office was in truth also the home to several scribes, a book store and the local hackneyman. Meardor was the largest village belonging to an unimportant fief and all legal affairs in the vicinity were conducted here. The clerk behind the counter recognised her and nodded his greeting. He dove under the counter and pulled out a scroll, approaching her with it.

"Arrived yesterday," he muttered hurriedly, "Though what you need it for, I can't fathom." Tesni took her order from him, unrolled the scroll and looked it over. She felt a stir of air and jerked around. Merlin was peering over her shoulder.

"Curious, are we?" asked the voice. Tesni cleared her throat, refraining from a remark. It was right. The servant – that was what he was, as Tesni had learned somewhere between a buckle and a lurch of her horse – raised his hands apologetically and grinned. It was a very disarming grin.

"That's Greek, isn't it? You read it?" he asked. Tesni shrugged, then nodded.

"Impressive. I never got past the letters," he said. Tesni found her mouth twitching in response. If it hadn't been for her master drilling her mercilessly in what felt like every arcane language there was, Tesni wouldn't have gotten much further either.

"That's because you're an idiot," muttered the prince.

"And of course you're fluent," retorted Merlin. The strange tugging at the corners of her mouth continued, and Tesni raised a hand to stop it. She never learned whether Prince Arthur was fluent in Greek or not, because he turned away for his answer. The clerk regarded the strangers with curiosity.

"They," Tesni said, clearing her throat again, "they'll need a map and horses." The clerk immediately sprang into action, shuffling over to his counter and starting to pull out papers. Merlin and the prince followed in his wake. Tesni looked at the scene and decided that from here on out, they would find their way around on their own. Not that they were her responsibility in the first place. The faster she lost them, the better. So why did she feel a little lonely all of a sudden?

She shrugged the feeling off and went upstairs, where the herald's office was. Torian was not in, but the door was open, so she settled down on one of his comfortable armchairs – courtesy of the overlord – and started on her scroll. She had paid for it in advance, so it was rightfully hers. A work by an obscure Greek mystic and physician, it had never been translated into any other languages and she had only found a vague reference to the text in one of her books. Still, as she hadn't found any explanation for the illness in the standard literature, she was ready to draw on any resources she could find, no matter how obscure. The elaborations of the long dead man on the influence of dreams on the human body and the concentration that Greek demanded of her had her soon engrossed in her reading.

She jumped when a hand suddenly moved into her field of vision and snatched the scroll from her. She looked up and almost cursed. Standing before her was Abelard, Torian's assistant.

"Got something confused?" he asked, an unpleasant smile playing around his delicate lips.

"I..." she started, not sure what to say. One had to be careful around the man.

"I, that's, anyway," he said dismissively, "yes, I know. Anything else?" Tesni's fingers twitched. Now here was a person who deserved a healthy dose of foxglove. One day, she would tell him just what she thought of him.

"I've got a message for Torian," she mumbled instead. Apparently, that blissful day was still far off. Abelard's smile grew wider and Tesni's eyes narrowed. He was up to something. And nothing Abelard ever did turned out to be pleasant for her.

"Torian isn't here," he said, "are you blind as well as deaf?"

"I...that's...I know that," she replied, feeling heat rise to her face. "I'm waiting for him."

"Well, good luck to you. He's about to set out on a run," Abelard sneered, "down by the stable. You might still catch him, if you hurry." Tesni cleared her throat, stood and stretched out her hand.

"What, you need me to guide you?" he asked. Tesni's mouth pressed into a thin line.

"My...my scroll," she muttered, "it's mine." Abelard regarded the scroll in his hands with a disinterested look.

"Yes, it stands to reason that _your_ scroll is yours. What of it?" Tesni's fingers twitched again.

"Give it to me," she said, trying to give herself a commanding tone. She knew she failed at it from the rasping sensation in her throat.

"Say 'give it to me please, Master Abelard'," said the herald's assistant. Tesni's fingers curled into a fist. There was no way she was going to call him Master Abelard. She would just snatch the scroll out of his hand. But she might tear it, if he held on to it. Or he might pull his hand back at the last second and she'd trip. Or something equally embarrassing. The fist uncurled.

"Give it to me please...Master Abelard," she whispered, her face glowing by now. Abelard gave the scroll another look, sighed and shoved it into her hands. She didn't give him the opportunity to say anything else, but fled from the room. In her hurry, she tripped nonetheless. One advantage of being deaf, she thought as she escaped down the stairs, is that I can't hear him laughing at me. Because that was what he was doing, no doubt about it.

The knot in the pit of her stomach tightened when she entered the stable and found that it was filled with people. Only Torian – and his horse – were conspicuously absent.

"Anythin' ah can 'elp yow with?" asked the stable master, before she had the opportunity to leave unnoticed.

"N-Nothing," she said quickly out and turned. To find Abelard leaning in the door, a sneer plastered all over his face, trapping her inside. She knew now what he was up to. She should have seen it coming. He had probably seen her in Torian's office and set this up beforehand. There was no reason for half of these people to be here.

"Come on, you can tell us," Abelard said.

"It's nothing," she repeated, moving towards the door. He put his arm out, stopping her.

"Looking for Torian?" he asked. Tesni mumbled something and shook her head.

"I'm sorry?" he asked, putting a hand to his ear, "I couldn't quite _hear_ you?" Oh gods, how she despised him.

"Y-yes," she choked out, against better knowledge. Abelard's sneer grew wider.

"I told you before, Torian is on a run," he said.

"You said...you..." she felt her tongue tie itself into knots, trying to ignore the eyes glued to her. "He was still...I could catch him."

"Did I? Well, I don't see him. Do you?" He pretended to search the room. She only shook her head, her mind stumbling to find a way to get out of this situation.

"I guess you're too _slow_, then," said Abelard. Forget despising, she hated him.

"I need to go," she muttered. He frowned.

"What, don't you have a message you need to send?" he asked.

"What?" she croaked. She had completely forgotten why she had come here in the first place. Abelard sighed and shook his head sadly.

"Ah, what shall we do with you? I asked," he said, "Don't you have a message to send?" he accompanied his words with exaggerated gestures, miming writing and sending something.

"Was that clear enough for you?" She felt her jaw clench. Say something, she screamed at herself. But it seemed that her tongue had turned into a useless flap of skin. If she could only...

"You know, you could make him pay," said the voice, stirring in the depths of her mind. "You just have to-"

"No!" gasped Tesni. Never again. Then she clapped a hand over her mouth. She had said that out loud.

"Good god, it must be hard to be dumb. Don't – you – have – a – message – to – send?" Abelard repeated for the third time, this time making a show of the effort it took him to mouth the words. Oh, just get it over with.

"Yes," she managed to reply.

"Just a little bit," coaxed the voice, "You want to, don't you?" She felt it brushing against her consciousness. With the touch came the familiar sense of losing herself. She pushed back, putting all her effort into it. Abelard was saying something, the voice was saying something and her head was one giant wasp-nest, trying to keep up with both.

"Shut up!" she snapped at the voice, slamming down every mental protection against its poisonous suggestions she had learned to construct these past eight years. Miraculously, it worked. She was once again alone in her head. Now she just had to get out of here. Abelard was blocking one exit, but there was second one at the other end of the stables. She just had to push her way through the spectators. She turned and looked them over. Most of them were grinning, but they were only enjoying Abelard's show. They weren't actively participating and they most likely wouldn't try to stop her. She took a step forward – and froze when her glance fell on two familiar faces.

Merlin and the prince were standing right in the middle of her escape route. She felt herself flush fiercely. Apparently, it wasn't enough that she was being made a fool of in front of half a town. No, the _Crown Prince of Camelot _had to see it, too. And Merlin – well, he had been understanding last night. He hadn't laughed at her or poked fun at her or treated her like a half-wit. He had just continued to talk to her like a normal person. That was over now, of course. Both men were wearing looks of utter contempt on their faces, and who could blame them? She felt ashamed of herself, standing here, failing to answer a simple question. Merlin's hand was on the prince's shoulder, urging him to leave. Yes, well, if she had any choice in the matter, she wouldn't want to associate with herself either. Gods, if only she could disappear on the spot. Master had always said that one should never approach the gods with impulsive requests. This wasn't impulsive, she really, truly wanted the earth to open up and swallow her. She lowered her gaze to her feet, hoping for the impossible. Her eyes were stinging and there was a big lump in her throat.

Out of the corner of an eye she caught a movement next to her. She forced herself to look up. If it was Abelard, who knew what he was going to do now.

It wasn't. It was the prince, closely followed by his manservant. He regarded her with a frown, then turned to Abelard.

"I'm sorry, I seem to be missing out on the joke here," he said. Oh great. So now it was going to start all over again. The voice was stirring again.

"Ah, I'm just trying to explain to this client here that it's impossible to send a message with an absent herald, on account of him being _absent_." Abelard spread his hands in a helpless gesture and shook his head. "But I'm afraid she doesn't quite grasp the concept. I'm afraid more often than not, when they lose their hearing, the mind goes with it," he said. Prince Arthur opened his mouth, then closed it, fixing her with a curious stare. She couldn't help but squirm under it. Then understanding seemed to dawn upon the prince's face. Of course, Tesni thought, he was sleeping yesterday.

"You're deaf?" he asked. And apparently Merlin hadn't told him, either out of respect for her privacy, or because there had been more important things to be attended to. She nodded helplessly.

"And dumb," jeered Abelard, "to be honest, I'm at my wit's end. Maybe you would like to have a try, good Sir?" Prince Arthur gave the man a strange look.

"Yes," he said slowly, "I might just do that." He turned to her. "Would you mind repeating back to me what this...gentleman...told you?" Just ignore it. Then again, if she just ignored it, they might all start mouthing it out to her again.

"I...I can't send a message because...because the herald is absent, on account o-of him being a-absent," she forced herself to choke out. If only she didn't gag on every second word, she could say something to make her look less stupid. Shove all the humiliation right back in Abelard's face. Find a witty answer.

"Strange. She doesn't seem dumb to me. Then again, I guess it does take one to know one." Yes, like that one. Wait...what? Tesni stared at the prince, then at Merlin to confirm that she hadn't misread the prince's words. He gave her one of his disarming grins. She stared back at the prince. Abelard beside her was doing the same, only he was moving his mouth. Wordlessly, as far as she could tell, making the prince's insinuation appear spot on.

"Now, if you don't mind," Prince Arthur said, a bored expression on his face.

"What?" asked Abelard. The prince sighed and one of his eyebrows rose.

"I," he pointed at himself, "would like to leave now," he mimicked walking with his fingers, "and you're blocking the exit." He pointed at the door. Abelard, apparently still dumbstruck, moved aside – and tripped on a rope which Tesni could have sworn hadn't been there just a second ago. He tumbled ungracefully into a heap of horse-dung.

"Yes," said the prince, "I think walking requires a modicum of intelligence." He smiled condescendingly at the fallen man and stepped outside. Tesni felt a light tug at her elbow and, still unable to collect her wits, followed it without resistance. Soon she found herself sitting down on a bench in the market square, staring at a water-skin that somebody had put in her hands. There was another light touch at her elbow.

"You all right?" she saw Merlin ask when she looked up. She shook her head to clear it, then nodded.

"Yes," she said slowly, "that's...that was...thank you." Merlin grinned.

"He deserved it."

"Yes," Tesni agreed with more heat than she thought she could put in one word. She flushed and peered at Prince Arthur.

"Thanks," she repeated. He gave a dismissive wave of the hand and shrugged.

"So what are you planning to do now?" he asked, "About your message, I mean. It seemed urgent and that man said the herald wouldn't be back for days." Tesni must have missed that part. She drummed the bridge of her nose.

"Where do those people live anyway?" asked the prince.

"That's..." she thought for a while. Was it safe to tell? Then again, he didn't know who they were, so there was no particular need to keep it a secret.

"Just across the border. Past Hadrot," she replied.

"Tattletale," sneered the voice. Tesni ignored it. There was a very pensive look on the prince's face now.

"I suppose you intend to ride to the next herald station?" he asked slowly. Tesni bit her lip. She had considered that option. It would take her just over one and a half days to reach the next larger town. Even without any supplies, that was manageable. The trouble was that Torian, his unpleasant assistant nonewithstanding, was an old friend of Master's and he could be trusted. Others? Not so much. On the other hand, there was no way she could hold out till past the border with no money at all. And of course she hadn't taken any money with her. She hadn't been planning on any prolonged trips when she left that morning. To be honest, she had reached somewhat of an impasse. She looked up from her hands, which she had been studying while deliberating and found the prince's eyes resting on her expectantly.

"I...did you say?" she asked, feeling another blush coming on. He raised an eyebrow.

"Not since I asked you a question, no," he said. Right, she hadn't answered that one yet. She hesitated, still unsure of her plans.

"I...suppose. Though I might...anyway," she muttered, squirming under his gaze.

"You could come with us," the prince said before she could make a final decision.

"_What_?" she asked at the same time as Merlin. The young man gave her a sheepish grin and turned to face his employer. He asked him something which she didn't see. There was no missing the mock concern all over his face, though. These two, she thought, have a weird relationship. Merlin, just a servant from what she could see, had no qualms about teasing his employer. He had done so all the way to Meardor. What was more surprising, the prince didn't seem to mind at all. If anything, he seemed to be fond of it. Weird.

"My head is just fine, thank you Merlin," the prince said with a sardonic smile. Then his expression changed back to pensive. Finally he seemed to have come to a decision.

"I've been thinking. You said last night you could do something about Merlin?" he asked. Merlin's eyes widened and his mouth opened and closed. It didn't form any words though, as far as she could determine.

"He looks like a fish," commented the voice acerbically. Privately, she agreed.

"That's rude," she muttered. It had obviously slithered by her barriers, but it seemed peaceful enough for now. Still, if she didn't put the voice in its place, it would get smug. She didn't want it to be smug, that never resulted in anything good.

"I didn't intend to eavesdrop," the prince said. His face had indignation written all over it. She felt heat rise to her cheeks again. She must have said her reprimand out loud and now the Crown Prince of Camelot thought she was referring to him.

"That's not...anyway," she mumbled.

"You heard us yesterday?" asked Merlin, "And you didn't say anything?" This time, it was the prince whose face gained a pinkish tinge.

"Neither did you," he pointed out with a reproachful look. Merlin pursed his lips and set his jaw in defiance.

"I'm not staying here," he said locking his arms across his chest. There was something endearing about that gesture.

"And as you may have noticed, Merlin, I didn't suggest you did," the prince huffed, "No, you're staying where I can keep an eye on you. Who knows what kind of mayhem you'll cause, left to your own devices?"

"You know, I did manage twenty years on my own before you came along, your Prattishness," the servant sniffed pointedly. There it was again, that small content smile playing around the prince's lips.

"And I'll never stop marvelling at the fact," he replied. "Your mother deserves an order just for that."

"Anyway." His eyes rested once more upon Tesni. She flinched, having half expected them to have forgotten about her.

"As it happens, we're heading for Hadrot. It might not be a bad idea to have you along to deal with any eventualities that...might arise. I'd cover your travelling expenses as a way of paying you." Tesni felt a flare of panic. Again there was someone expecting much more of her than she might be able to deliver. What she had said yesterday so boastfully had only been a hypothesis! But no, she had to open her stupid mouth. Tattletale, indeed.

"I..." she started, thinking about all her inadequacies. What if by some kind of stroke of bad luck the prince found out what she really was? What if there was some kind of horrible accident? What if bandits attacked and she did something incredibly stupid and got them all killed? She was a horrible rider, she would slow them down. She was far from having finished her apprenticeship, she would fail horribly. Not be able to do anything at best, poison Merlin by accident at worst. She was...she was...

"I-I'm d-deaf," she finally managed to stutter. There. Maybe he had forgotten, but now that she had reminded him, he certainly wouldn't want her along. No sane person would.

"Following that line of reasoning, your master was insane," the voice said dryly. Yes, definitely. She had been absolutely insane to bother with her.

"I know that," said the prince, lifting one of his eyebrows. He did that a lot, she noticed.

"One day his face will freeze that way," said the voice peevishly. Luckily, the prince continued before she could laugh at the mental image. Now that would have been embarrassing.

"I don't see how that matters in this case. You don't use your ears to ride or to concoct your remedies, do you?" Prince Arthur asked, the eyebrow wandering even further up. She flushed. Indeed, she didn't need her ears for that, but...This just wasn't a good idea, no matter how you looked at it.

"I think it's a good idea," said Merlin, oh so helpfully. "Even if it came from you," he added with a grin, looking at the prince. This conversation was so getting away from her. They were crazy, both of them. Then again. They did have supplies and money to buy more and riding with them, she might find out more about this illness. They obviously knew more than they were telling her.

"That settles it then," said the prince, turning his attention the map he had bought. Tesni's jaw dropped. What was settled? Why was it settled? _Who_ had settled it?

"He did," said the voice.

"Sorry. He does that. It's a side-effect of being a prat," said Merlin. Cheerfully.

"Foxglove is the solution," advised the voice in a knowing tone. Tesni buried her face in her hands and groaned.

/~/~/

_As usual, reviews will be much appreciated. Pretty please?_

_Cheers, C._

**Next Time:** Sir Gwaine takes exception to being painfully sober. Also: A loose jointed escape-artist makes an appearance.

* _Do ut des_: the equivalent of '_quid pro quo_' that was used way back when. Literally: "I give that you may give".


	10. Goatee & Co, InCrime

_I'm not even going to start on the hows and whys and sorrys. I got stuck matching the story to my own preview. Please ignore it. Second part to come soon, had to split because the page count was getting...yeah._

_One thing should be mentioned though: I am not currently watching the new season, I'm waiting with that till I finish the story because I don't want to screw with my character consistency. This story officially departs from the show and will not come back to it._

_Enjoy, please, review and don't lose patience with me._

**Chapter 9: Goatee & Co, InCrime**

"_Bright red is blood, and corpses are blue,,..."_

Gwaine slithered around the corner, Wynn close beside him. He could hear the sound of his soft boots adding to the rhythm of his own heavy footsteps.

"_...the monster is searching, searching for you..."_

Step, step, breath, step step, breath, step step, there's another corner, don't slow down. The momentum slammed Gwaine into the wall, his shoulder scraped against the rough stones, the fabric of his tunic tore. Ignore the pain, step step, breath, step step...

"_...unending sleep is what it's bringing,..."_

Gwaine stumbled, caught himself, continued running. Wynn fell back, drew even, fell back again.

"_...when the ghosts rise and midnight is ringing..."_

Step step, breath, step step, breath. Behind him Wynn's steps suddenly fell out of pattern. A thud, a yelp, the sound of a body slithering over stone.

"_...One, two, three, is what the bell-ringer tolls,..."_

Gwaine threw himself around in mid-step. Wynn tried getting back on his feet, lost his balance, toppled over.

"_...four, five, six, the monster calls..."_

Gwaine grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and pulled him up.

"I...I can't," Wynn panted.

"_...seven, eight, nine, continues the sound,..."_

"Yes, you can!" Gwaine snapped, giving him a hard shove between the shoulder-blades.

"_...ten and eleven and twelve end the count..."_

They continued running. Step step, breath, push Wynn, step step, breath, another shove, another corner.

"_...Your blood is red, your corpses are blue,..."_

A dead end. A bloody dead end!

"No! Son of a...Lord Ruler of Mischief, crap! Crap, _crapcrapcrap_!" Wynn keeled over, gasping for air between curses.

"_...ready or not, I'm coming for you!"_

And they weren't ready. As if anyone could ever be ready for what was coming. Bloody hell, they were _not_ ready!

/~/

_Three days and an infinite amount of curses earlier..._

Sir Gwaine, Lovable Rouge, and most recently Knight to Camelot when he couldn't avoid it, propped his elbows on the counter and gave the innkeeper a sign to pour him another drink. All things considered, he was very satisfied with the past seven days. He had successfully lost those stuffy buggers (guards was the proper term) by sending them back on their own, while he was allegedly checking out some rumours. Rumours he intended to check out, all right, rumours about some magnificent ale and pretty tavern wenches. The wenches had turned out so-so, but the ale more than made up for it.

Unfortunately, he could avoid being Knight to Camelot for only so long. This was going to be the last night spent in blissful irresponsibility. Tomorrow, as soon as he got over the hangover he was firmly resolved to acquire, he was getting on his horse and riding back to Camelot.

Arthur would probably give him an earful or two about 'shirking his duties' and acting his age, but it was worth it. Besides, acting his age was advice Arthur should take. Take a look at him, turned twenty-five not too long ago and acting like a man twice his age, spreading honour and responsibility like a disease. Of course, a small, infected, part of Gwaine's mind thought that he couldn't spend all his life taverning – the same part that had pestered him into accepting his accolade, and look what that got him. At some point or other he would have to grow up and admit to himself that Arthur was right.

Gwaine sighed. He was about two or three taverns away from that lamentable point, he felt it in his bones. Times were changing and somehow, Gwaine had already started changing along with them. It had all really started with that stupid brawl. Before meeting that crazy lot, which is to say Merlin, Arthur and Arthur's knightly cronies, Gwaine had been free to do whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted. Nobody cared if he caught a knife in the ribs after two or three pints over the recommended amount, except maybe for himself, and about that he wasn't quite so sure at times. But then came Merlin, who kept sticking his nose into everybody's business, and then came Arthur, who kept dragging Gwaine's nose into everybody's business and before the rogue knew it he had friends and with friends came ties and with ties came...well, growing up.

Did he miss those carefree times of wandering about aimlessly, accountable to no one but himself? Definitely.

"But you can't turn back the clock," he muttered glumly.

"Now, see, that's a misconception. You can turn back a clock just fine, but what will you be left with?" Gwaine looked up and into the tanned face of the scrawny boy who had been mopping the floor of the tavern until a couple of moments ago. He put a refilled mug of ale before Gwaine and started applying a very grubby cloth to the counter, though whether he was trying to clean it or just pushing dirt from one place to the other was anybody's guess.

"I'll tell you what," the boy continued, "an expensive clock that is running slow, while time keeps moving on regardless. A waste of perfectly good money, if you ask me, and it'll only get you into trouble."

"But I didn't ask you," Gwaine pointed out. How old was this kid? Fourteen? Fifteen? Definitely not old enough to be dispensing life-wisdoms to people.

"True," said the boy, "but as they say; in giving advice, seek to annoy, not to please. What is more annoying than unasked advice, huh?"

"You've got that saying wrong, mate. It goes: In giving advice, seek to _help_, not to please," Gwaine said dryly.

"Does it now," said the boy, winking at him. He had a prepossessing face, with a mouth that curved naturally in a light smile. Gwaine propped his head on his hands and nodded.

"It does," he replied, "and seeking to help, I advise you to refrain from sticking your freckled nose into other people's business. It gets you into trouble more than anything." The boy laughed, dark hazel eyes dancing with mischief.

"It's not that freckled, my nose. Fifteen spots in summer, ten in winter. Ah, but you know what else they say about good advice?"

"It is always certain to be ignored?"

"Aye. Clever people, them, aren't they? Uh..." The kid caught the innkeeper's displeased eye and winced, "talking about clever, I think it might be in my best interest to move it along. My employer seems to think I'm harassing his customer."

"And aren't you?"

"Why, how should I know. Am I?" Oh, he was good, Gwaine had to give him that. The kid was a natural charmer, and didn't he know it. Gwaine was ready to bet that those brown curls wouldn't be half as unruly, if the boy didn't instigate it in regular intervals.

Given a two or three more years, he'd turn into one of those guys that have rows of girls squealing over them. Not thanks to their overt masculinity, mind you, this kid was a shrimp, and an underfed one at that. No, this particular brand of charmer used their harm- and defenceless looks to appeal to the tender spots in a woman's heart. Gwaine didn't think that was fair game. How were proper guys like him supposed to compete with the maternal instincts these guys evoked?

"Well, am I? Harassing you, good Sir Customer?" the kid repeated.

"Definitely," muttered Gwaine, trying for a frown while coming up with a grin. The charm was gender-blind in this case. Maybe he was going to leave the kid a small coin or two. Hard work should be rewarded and young talent must always be encouraged.

"My, how perfectly ghastly of me. I shall apologise and remove myself and my harassment," said the boy with another grin. He put on a peaked cap, saluted Gwaine with two fingers against the rim and disappeared through a door into what Gwaine assumed to be the kitchen. The knight shook his head. Kids these days. Now, when he had been that age...

...he'd been exactly the same, minus the shrimp-part, no use pretending otherwise. And in any case, when had Gwaine started thinking like an old person, reminiscing about his bygone youth? He was still young, damn it. For another two taverns at least. He raised his mug and drank to that.

Business in the tavern was going well, but not so well that you lost sight of the people coming and going. Therefore Gwaine looked up when the door swung open and Goatee And Company entered, bringing with them a draft of moist autumn air. The group instantly caught Gwaine's eye, even before they settled down at a table in a dark corner not too far from Gwaine.

If it had only been Goatee, Gwaine wouldn't have given him second look. He was a middle-aged man of average size and stature, his languid face sporting the eponymous hair-growth. He dressed very low-key in a nondescript coat over equally nondescript riding breeches and a grey cotton tunic.

And Company, on the other hand, consisted of two unsavoury types that looked like all of their much needed brains had dissolved into muscle. They had faces that could make a cow's milk turn sour in the udder and both were dressed in shoddy leather vests over bare chests and dangled a truly ridiculous amount of sharp, pointy objects from their belts.

Now, generally, people the size of a minor troll and with arms to go with it have a hard time appearing low-key and therefore most of them don't try. These guys evidently hadn't realised that simple truth yet and tried anyway. Which made them look the very opposite.

It was therefore, and due to the fact that as a rule of thumb, people never adhere to their own advice, that Gwaine discreetly relocated himself and his mug a little closer to them and went about the very knightly business of eavesdropping.

"That rotten son of a lark is wringin' the cockerel," grunted troll-sized And Company Number One – distinguishable from troll-sized And Company Number Two only by his shaved head, for which Gwaine dubbed him Shiny.

"He better not be pettin' any critters on us," grunted And Company Number Two, who had a precarious habit of balancing his chair on the hind legs. Cue Gwaine christening him Humpty Dumpty.

It took only that small part of their conversation for Gwaine to be certain that he was about to learn of activities matching And Company's unsavoury appearances. It had been a while since he had heard Busk, a special brand of cant spoken pretty much exclusively in the inner Ring of Segoncaer, but the vocabulary was very distinctive. If there was one thing Gwaine knew for certain, it was that nothing good ever came out of Escetian thugs meeting up in shady taverns in Camelot. Particularly not after recent events.

"Ain't gonna be no cockerel getting' wrung if he's gone rabid," grunted Shiny. Humpty Dumpty gave a series of response-grunts, though that was probably supposed to be a laugh.

Goatee, for a change, did not grunt, but drawled languidly, "Quit your gobbling, you morons." His choice of words and distinct accent told Gwaine that he wasn't a native at busking. No slum-dweller Gwaine had ever met spoke with that carefully polished stressing. Goatee had grown up well fed, clothed and educated. Interesting company, this. Shiny laughed – or grunted, rather.

"As if any of them herders has bottled the tricking," he said. Goatee paused, then shrugged. Gwaine suppressed a satisfied smile. The whole point of Busk was that its analogous terminology was very hard to understand unless you were a tumbler – which is to say, a native to the slums of Segoncaer. Or unless you had worked as a bodyguard there for a couple of months and had spent a lot of your nights – and days – in various dubious establishments. Which, incidentally, Gwaine had done a couple of years back. He wouldn't dare try busking himself after such a long time, the slang was notorious for double innuendo and a single word could mean the difference between apologising and propositioning, but he had no trouble keeping up with his new friends.

"Anything I can get you, good Sirs?" Gwaine's other new friend, the future womaniser, had darted out of the kitchen and positioned himself in front of Goatee And Company. Goatee looked up at him and shrugged.

"Three of whatever is best," he said, "no, make that four." He nodded at a fourth man, dressed in a grey travelling cloak, approaching the table.

"Four of our famous house-ale it is then," chimed the kid and squeezed past the newcomer. When he passed Gwaine, he pushed up the peak of his cap and raised an eyebrow.

"_Nose, business?_" he mouthed. Gwaine rolled his eyes.

"You're late," said Goatee when Cloak, as Gwaine decided to name the fourth man, had settled down.

"It turned pants," said Cloak. Which meant that there had been some kind of complication to their business, whatever that was.

"What do you mean?" asked Goatee, "The feeder didn't spot you, did he?"

That was the moment in which Gwaine perked up. 'Feeder' was Busk for 'prince'. Now, being in Camelot and princes not exactly being a dime a dozen, there was really only one person Goatee could be referring to. Arthur.

"What are you taking me for, a dude? Of course the feeder didn't mount me," said Cloak indignantly.

"No, but there was..." He trailed off as their drinks arrived and waited until the boy had scuffled back behind the counter to once again busy himself with his grubby cloth before he continued.

"Like I was saying, he didn't mount me, but there was a raven. And a powerful one, at that." Gwaine's eyebrow rose simultaneously with Goatee's. A sorcerer?

"A raven?" Goatee repeated slowly. Humpty Dumpty and Shiny looked appalled. Cloak nodded.

"I saw him culling six of ours when they tried banging the feeder. With one single trick. Slammed them right into the trees like he was cracking a single ward." Impressive, Gwaine thought. Six men with one single word. Now, he didn't know all that much about magic, but that definitely sounded like 'a powerful one'. Goatee asked the question that was also on Gwaine's mind.

"Why would a raven be protecting the feeder? Camelot's Bull has ordered a flocking on all ravens."

"That isn't all," said Cloak lowering his voice and leaning forward, "he didn't just pumpkin the feeder, he was_ with _him." Humpty Dumpty grunted.

"That's cracking pants without a wrench. There's no way a raven is with Camelot's feeder." Gwaine hated to agree with someone as dumb as Humpty Dumpty, but there was really no way in hell Arthur was travelling with a sorcerer. Cloak sniffed and leaned back.

"Oh, but he is. I stickenem'd them since they left town. He's a bottler to the feeder, they were together the whole time. Lanky leech, black hair, wearing a ridiculous neckerchief."

Gwaine spurted his drink over the bar. Goatee spun around and fixated the knight with his beady black eyes. There was nothing nondescript about those, they spelled bloody murder for anybody who dared eavesdropping.

Gasping for air, Gwaine had the presence of mind to slam his mug down and start yelling slurred curses at the innkeeper and the boy behind the counter, pertaining to the quality of their ale. The very unjustly abused man threw him a poisonous glance while the boy just smirked, but Goatee seemed to buy his drunken act and turned back to his mates. Gwaine chanced missing out on some of the discussion and continued swearing until he was certain that he had reasonably established himself as background-noise.

All the while, his thoughts were racing. He must have misunderstood that. His Busk must be more messed up than he thought. Or they were referring to a different prince, after all. There was no way _in hell_ that Merlin, Prince I-hate-Magic-Arthur's manservant, his harmless, loyal friend _Merlin_, was a sorcerer. Impossible.And yet...

How many princes other than Arthur were running around Camelot with lanky, dark-haired guys with an odd preference for ridiculous neckerchiefs in tow? And with how many of such neckerchief-sporting guys other than Merlin were those princes friends?

Come to think of it, how many neckerchief-sporting guys had a weird tendency to come out of fights unscathed, even when all odds were against them? How many such neckerchief-sporting guys went to a bridge with their completely non-magical friends, where they were addressed as 'magic and strength' by a weird sword-into-flower-turning dwarf? He had been somewhat distracted at the time, and then he had mostly forgotten about is, but Gwaine certainly wasn't 'magic', which could only mean...

Bloody hell, Merlin _was_ a sorcerer. It all made sense now, all those little incidents which Gwaine had never really wanted to make sense.

On a different note, _what was the lunatic thinking, mucking about with magic under Uther's nose?_ Had he gone completely off the deep end? Had his mother dropped him on the head once too often when he was a child? Did he have a bloody death-wish?

Ah...strike that last question, but still, of all the daft, dumb, utterly moronic ways of getting himself killed, he had to go and hire on as Arthur's manservant?

Well, there were easier ways of getting yourself dead and Gwaine would happily demonstrate several of them to Merlin as soon as he got his scrawny neck between his fingers. For now he would content himself with making sure that nobody beat him to it.

"...makes this a right one hander," Humpty Dumpty was just saying, "nobody told us about no raven. I say we flare it."

"Don't go shock gobbling, ya camp capon. We've got our own raven, remember?" said Shiny. Humpty Dumpty shivered.

"'nother reason to flare it. That feele is bent, I'm tellin' ya. Have ya seen her eyes? It's like ya'll have a right cull if she just looks at ya long enough." Humpty Dumpty pointed at his eyes with two fingers, leaning forward in his toppled chair, which creaked dangerously.

"A right cull, just with them eyes," he repeated, smacking his hand on the table top.

"Then don't look at her, simple as that," said Shiny and started grunting as if he had said something particularly inspired. Humpty Dumpty's mouth pulled into a pout, which looked really ridiculous on someone like him.

"You just wait till she decides to _play _with _you_," he said. Shiny stopped grunting and threw a haunted look around the room. Goatee pursed his lips and drummed the top of the table with his fingers.

"What about the feeder?" he asked Cloak.

"Took a pointer."

Gwaine near well spurted his drink all over the counter again. Learning that one of your friends took an arrow and might be dead will do that to you.

"But it wasn't a cull, the raven saw to that. I stickenem'd them for a while, till they burrowed in with some feele."

"A girl?" asked Goatee, frowning. Cloak nodded quickly.

"But it didn't look like she was a bottler to them. Near a right would have left them there to rot, but the raven tricked her round."

"I see," muttered Goatee, "anything else?" Cloak paused and took a sip from his mug. Gwaine on the other hand refrained. He wasn't going to risk spilling his drink again if Cloak came up with another spurt-inducing revelation.

"We-ell," said Cloak slowly, setting down his mug. An impatient muscle twitched in Goatee's jaw.

"About the raven," Cloak continued equally slowly. The muscle in Goatee's jaw twitched again and he looked like he was going to wring his informant's neck if he continued baiting him. Gwaine decided that if it came to that, he would gladly lend a hand or two.

"You see, I heard him tricking with the feele after ring free – trying to tack up, no doubt." Gwaine shook his head with a good measure of amusement. He was ready to bet everything he owned that Merlin had been as far from trying to get under the girl's skirts as Humpty Dumpty and Shiny were from being geniuses. Somebody had forgotten to add 'deceit' to his personality when they made him. Though, considering that he had been practising sorcery right under Arthur's nose for who knows how many years, Gwaine might just have to revise his character-assessment.

"I hope your great information isn't that you watched him filling her cup," growled Goatee.

"Oh, no, no, it never came to that. Not outside anyway, though who knows what they were doing inside, two leeches and a young, healthy feele all alone at night..."

Urgh, that was just disgusting. Somebody had obviously taken Merlin's portion of sleaze and put it into Cloak's mind. Now, there were a couple of rather unflattering things Gwaine was ready to say about Arthur, but he had to be fair where fairness was due. Arthur was about as likely to take advantage of a girl that had helped him out in a pinch – or any kind of girl, really – as Merlin. He had this whole notion of chivalry and propriety going, vastly overrated in Gwaine's opinion, but laudable in its own sadly misguided way. Least of all would Arthur ever engage in such activities with Merlin. Good thing that Gwaine had refrained from drinking, because the mental image was certainly spurt-inducing.

"...anyway," Cloak said quickly, as the muscle in Goatee's jaw cramped permanently, "the feele told the raven that he was, you know," he leaned closer and lowered his voice so that Gwaine had to strain his ears to hear him over the noise in the tavern, "caught up in _her_ web."

"Are you sure about that?" asked Goatee.

"The feele looked like she had bottled what she was tricking about and the raven seemed to agree,"

"She's going to have fun playing with him," said Goatee, nodding contently. "Is that all then?"

"I gave them our present and got out of there," Cloak replied, "I must be a draw or two ahead of them, as the feeder won't be able to make good pace for a while."

"Well, I had hoped that the feeder would be delayed more...but there will be other opportunities before he and his raven reach Hadrot. And if the raven is indeed caught up in her web, he won't be much of a problem. If your information is correct and our present is working properly," said Goatee.

"I can't speak for the present, that's your curtain, but my song is as clear as morning-dew," Cloak replied.

"We'll see about that." Goatee drew out a purse – very well filled, judging by the sound of it – and flung it at Cloak.

"You'll get more if your claims are true. If they aren't..." he smiled very unpleasantly, "I will personally present you as a new toy to _her_." Cloak shivered, and Gwaine didn't blame him. He had no idea who '_she'_ was, though he certainly intended to find out, but Goatee's face made it clear that being '_her'_ toy wasn't something you ever wanted to do.

"I told you everything I've sucked," said Cloak, clutching at the purse hastily. Goatee nodded.

"What about the other thing I asked you to do?" he asked. Cloak rummaged in the depths of his garments and pulled out a gold chain. Fastened to it was a small locket with what seemed to be a ruby embedded in the lid.

"Wasn't a single ward to get it," he said, a whiny note in his voice, and placed it on the table in front of him. Goatee took it and held it up in the air to inspect it. It was beautiful work, Gwaine could see that even from where he was sitting. The chain was but a wisp, gleaming in the light. The locket was about the size of a gold coin, the lid beautifully decorated with complicated engravings. In the middle a ruby threw small red reflexes unto Goatee's hands and the tabletop. The man opened it and an unpleasant smile stretched his lips.

"Yes, this is it. My Lord will be very satisfied," he said, snapping the locket shut.

"Like I said, it wasn't no single ward...I think it merits just a little more-"

"Can I get you anything else, good Sirs?" The kid that liked to distribute unsolicited advice had once again abandoned his grubby cloth and approached the group's table. Goatee looked up at him, eyes narrowed in irritation.

"Do we look like you can get us anything else?" he asked with a growl. The kid recoiled and drew the peak of his cap deeper into his face. A wise decision, Gwaine thought, because he had started to suspect that 'that feele' wasn't the only one who could give you 'a right cull with just them eyes', as Shiny had put it.

"I say," said the kid, a light tremor in his voice, "no bad blood, if you please, good Sir. Just d- just doing my job. This is a tavern, don't you know? Now, see, generally, people come to a tavern to drink an' we pride ourselves on providing the best customer service in these parts." Gutsy, thought Gwaine, but about as smart as practising sorcery in Camelot, if Goatee's face was any indication. Humpty Dumpty rose from his seat and displayed all his troll sized glory to the kid and anybody who was in the vicinity.

"I'm gonna do you a service right across your throat, you camp capon, if you don't spill air right now," he grunted. One of his fingers was about the size of the kid's scrawny arms and those large fingers were currently employed with stroking a particularly sharp and pointy looking knife. The kid took a step back and Gwaine hoped that he had taken the not-so-subtle hint.

The problem with those natural charmers is that from the cradle onward they learn that they can smile and joke their way out of all trouble. Unfortunately, the real world just doesn't work like your nursery. Some, like Gwaine, pick up on that quickly and live a couple more years. Others take a little longer and usually they end up getting a dinner invitation from the worms.

This particular charmer seemed to be dead set on accepting the invitation, for he folded his arms across his chest in a defiant gesture and drew himself up to full size. Which extended just past Humpty Dumpty's elbows.

"I say," he repeated, "I dunno what a camp capon is, but I don't think it's got anything to do with sleepin' rough. I'll tell you what, good Sir,-"

But nobody ever learned just _what_ the kid intended to tell Humpty Dumpty, because Gwaine, who was apparently infected with the dreadful disease called chivalry, took his mug and flung it across the room with full force. It hit the wall and shattered into tiny pieces. All heads turned towards the source of the noise and stared at the ale slowly dripping from the raw stone-wall. Then all heads turned towards the source of the flying mug and stared at Gwaine.

"You rotten bastards!" Gwaine roared in his best imitation of a drunkard. Which was a _very_ good imitation.

"Do you intend to poison me with this pig swill? You!" He toppled forward and grabbed the kid by the scruff of the neck. "Did that hell-hound Elyan pay you for killing me, huh? Did he? What did he pay you?" He gave the kid a violent shake that sent his teeth chattering and silently apologised to Elyan for the slander. His name had been the first that came to mind, right after Arthur's. Whom he thought wise not to mention in front of Goatee And Company.

"What now? Who?" asked the kid, trying to wriggle out of Gwaine's grip. The knight held on firmly and continued shaking and insulting the foolish brat until Humpty Dumpty had decided that the kid was dead whether he did him a service or not and settled down. After that, Gwaine continued to shake and insult him until the innkeeper had shuffled over and taken custody of his young worm-loving employee and sent him off to scrub pots. And after that, Gwaine insulted and threatened the ale, the brat, Elyan, the brat, everything that was not-so-holy, the brat, and the innkeeper. And after that, he found himself having a very inspired conversation with a dung-heap out on the streets.

Now, as a general rule, dung-heaps make for very intense conversation, but they tend to raise a tremendous stink when they find themselves at odds with someone. Gwaine therefore extricated himself as quickly as he could and, after banishing the traces of the encounter from mind and body to the best of his ability, tried to figure out what he should do next.

Getting kicked out of the tavern had not exactly been the smartest move, but it had been unavoidable, lest he fancied having a dead kid on his hands. He just hoped that the innkeeper had plenty of pots. Should the young fool somehow find another way to get himself into trouble, well, Gwaine had done the best he could and thus felt justified in washing his hands off him.

Of course, Gwaine thought, as he put on his jacket, which the innkeeper had had the courtesy to throw out alongside him, he could just leave and pretend he never heard anything. As soon as he had finished thinking that thought, that monster called responsibility reared its ugly head again and with an insolent snarl chased away any such sensible idea.

Well then, sticking his nose into other people's business it was. Gwaine, who despite his roughish life-style and appearance was actually a fairly systematic person, organised his thoughts in form of a mental list. The following questions begged to be answered:

First off; what was Goatee and Company's interest in slowing down Arthur and what were they trying to distract him from? No answer so far.

Secondly; what where the means they planned to employ to accomplish their goal? Unsavoury and most certainly life-threatening, obviously. They seemed to have embraced the possibility of Arthur not surviving their efforts.

Thirdly; what was the 'present' Cloak had given to Arthur and Merlin? No answer to that, either, though Gwaine thought it was safe to say that it wasn't flowers.

And lastly; why where Arthur and Merlin travelling to Hadrot in the first place?

Gwaine sighed. More questions and less answers than he would have liked. What was worse, while he could think of many more questions (like what the hell Merlin meant by practising sorcery), he could think up no answers at all.

Re-entering the tavern was out of the question, as it would draw attention. At least, Gwaine thought absent-mindedly, he'd gotten around paying the bill. Which, considering the anorexic state of his purse, was a good thing.

There was only one option left to him, all things considered: Wait until Goatee and Company had finished their discussion, then follow them in the hopes of being led to the answers he craved.

The sky was heavy with clouds and the night was dark and foggy, which meant he would most likely not be discovered easily. On the other hand, the fog meant that he would have to keep close to the men he was to follow lest he lose them. It was a good thing he had not managed to drink very much, his steps were steady and his mind clear, which was an advantage. If the men had come on foot, that was. If they had horses, there was very little he could do. Hooves could be muffled with cloth, but horses had a bad tendency to make other noises, regardless of their masters' wishes for stealth.

Gwaine pulled the hood of his jacket over his head and retreated into the shadows of an alley opposite the tavern, squinting at the entrance. If they had horses, he'd figure out something else, he told himself. Or better yet, maybe his sense of responsibility would prove to be reasonable and admit that there was really nothing he could do.

An eternity seemed to pass and the water seeping through the soles of his shoes was beginning to turn his toes numb, when the door finally swung open. The first to exit was Cloak. He looked up at the dark sky, muttered a quiet curse and started down the street into the village. Gwaine remained put. From what he understood, Cloak was just a hired hand who had done his part. It was Goatee whom he was really interested in.

A couple of minutes later, the door opened again and the person of interest stepped outside, closely followed by Humpty Dumpty and Shiny, who were quietly grunting amongst each other. Goatee also threw a look at the sky, but he merely shivered and drew his coat closer around him. Then he turned and walked down the street in the direction opposite to the one Cloak had disappeared in; out into the fields surrounding the village. No horses, apparently, Gwaine thought with a mixture of satisfaction and annoyance. He gave the three men a small head-start, then followed.

Their route followed the road for about a quarter of an hour, past a couple of farming sheds and gated meadows. Gwaine allowed himself to fall back a good bit, but regretted that decision soon, when after a bend in the road he discovered that the men had disappeared. He strained his eyes at the darkness and examined his surroundings carefully. There, to his left, he discovered a barely visible path opening up between the high bushes at the road-side. He took it, quickened his pace as much as he could without sounding like an army on the march-through and caught up to his quarry at the outskirts of a small creek.

He needn't have worried about being discovered, Goatee and Company were obviously not expecting anybody trailing them, for they did not turn around even once. Gwaine, on the other hand, found his nerves playing tricks on him. Every twig breaking under his feet, every rustle in the trees were cause for him to jump. Once or twice he could have sworn he heard light footsteps behind him, but when he turned around to scan the path, he discovered no movement except for some branches rocking in the wind.

Further they walked into the night and Gwaine was just beginning to think that they would never reach their destination, whatever that might be, when the trees finally opened up to reveal a house pressed against a formation of rocks. House, he said, though it was much closer to being a fortress and the most outrageous piece of architecture Gwaine had ever seen. Several architects must have been employed in constructing it at the same time, without seeing what the others were doing or showing any regard for the laws of nature, for there was a wide assortment of miss-matched styles and materials that seemed to defy gravity.

Partially it seemed to have been inspired by the Greeks, partially it reminded Gwaine of the descriptions sea-traders had made of the wooden constructions up in the far north. Other parts again, were unlike anything he had ever heard of. The strangest part was the roof of the central wing. In the middle there was a tower which seemed to be all windows, with beams along its length, not straight, but winding their way in between tall, oval windows. The centre-beam exceeded the length of the tower by about half its height and sharpened towards the end. Web-like constructions of beams culminated in two more poles rising into the sky to each side of the tower, so that it seemed like a gigantic skeletal hand was groping for the sky. In between the beams, Gwaine saw windows with nothing behind them but air and rock.

It looked like someone had taken parts of buildings all across the known world, bucketed them about with enthusiasm and then tossed them against the rocks, where they remained as they fell. Gwaine felt his spine crawl as he approached it and a growing reluctance to enter. It didn't seem natural, no matter how you looked at it.

Goatee had reached the iron gate and walked right through it. Humpty Dumpty and Shiny seemed to dislike the building as much as Gwaine did, because the paused briefly before the entrance, shifting nervously from one foot to the other, but they too entered at last and disappeared in the shadows of the pillars.

Gwaine pushed aside all his feelings of discomfort and followed, though he was starting to wonder whether he had lost his mind. He quickly crossed the last two metres separating him from the fence, careful to stay free of the grovel and ducked into the archway, past the gate. The bright light of the torches stung in his eyes and made them water.

Suddenly, he felt a sharp tug at his jacket and whirled around, barely managing to suppress a startled cry. What he saw through a blurry curtain of tears almost had him yelp again, had not his heart leapt into his throat and closed it off.

The fabric of his jacket was caught between the sharp, white teeth of a giant tiger, muscles bulging ready to pounce, eyes gleaming gold in the darkness and its muzzle curled in a savage leer. Gwaine felt himself turn to stone, wondering which of the breaths he hardly dared to take would be his last. Moments passed in which neither animal nor knight-turned-statue moved. The predator was waiting, sitting perfectly still. Too still, Gwaine realised. He blinked away the tears and gave a sigh, feeling very shaky and very silly. It was not him who was a statue, it was the tiger. A very life-like, creepy one, but just a statue nonetheless. The vivid gleam in its eyes was nothing but the reflection of the torches' light.

Gwaine disentangled his jacket with an incredulous shake of his head. Jumpy as a little girl. If any of his fellow knights ever learned about this, they'd laugh themselves silly. He was just about to move along, when a crunching noise in the yard made him stop once again. The crunching grew louder and Gwaine quickly pressed himself into the shadow of the giant tiger. Not a moment too soon – a second later, he heard the familiar grunting voices of Humpty Dumpty and Shiny. One of them, Gwaine could not make out which, was complaining in all the colours Busk phraseology had to offer about having to stand guard-duty on such a rotten night, and the other one was agreeing.

"But-" the complacent one said, "I'd rather do owling than run across that feele. Crooked as her house, I'm tellin' ya, an she'll give ya a right cull."

"Just with them eyes," grunted the other one, "just with them eyes, I'm tellin' ya. Ain't natural, that feele."

"Ain't natural," agreed his companion. Gwaine rolled his eyes. Inspired conversation, that.

As much as he was amused by And Company's inability to produce any original thought, he was annoyed by their presence. There was no getting into that yard through the gate now and he very much doubted that Humpty Dumpty and Shiny had enough brains to comprehend Goatee's plans. To find out which, after all, was his goal.

He scowled at the tiger. If he hadn't spend that much time staring at the grinning stone-monster, he might have gotten across the yard before the guards reached their post. Or, he though, I might have been right in the middle of it with nowhere to hide. No, this way was probably better.

He waited until one of the men started speaking again, then quickly crept away, the sound of his footsteps covered by the large guard's complaints. As soon as he had reached the tree-line, he dove into the shadows and turned around.

His eyes scanned the building. A group of windows to his far left which he knew to have been dark a couple of moments ago were now illuminated. That must be where Goatee had gone. And some woman was inside, someone And Company were obviously afraid off. Their employer, maybe, or at least Goatee's partner? It stood to reason that there would be conversation between them, since she had not been present at the meeting in the tavern. If Gwaine made haste, he might get a report on what had happened after he had been kicked out.

He let his gaze wander down the fence. It was tall and had vicious looking spikes on top. But not far from the illuminated windows there was a tree with sturdy branches that reached well into the yard. If he climbed that, he could get inside without having to deal with the fence at all. Gwaine smirked as he sneaked towards the tree. Posting guards at the entrance, but not cutting down trees right at the fence? Amateurs.

But he wasn't going to complain, he thought as he pulled himself up the lowest branch and proceeded to climb higher, they were making his job that much easier.

In hindsight, the second he thought that, he should have realised that there was no way in hell things would ever be that simple for him and legged it as far and as fast as he could. Of course he didn't do that and of course that was when things went horribly wrong.

When he jumped, he hoped that he would land softly and softly land he did, for the most part. His fall was cushioned by something warm, though his elbow collided very painfully with something hard. There was a loud yelp and two thuds as first his cushion, then he, crashed to the ground in a flailing heap. A string of rough curses followed. For a second, Gwaine thought he had landed right on top of Humpty Dumpty or Shiny, but then he realised that though the voice and the accent were familiar, the voice was too high to belong to either. He fought to disentangle himself from the other person, succeeded – though not without stomaching a kick or two – and peered into the darkness in front of him. His eyes met with a scrawny figure and a mop of tousled dark curls. He didn't need more.

"You!" he hissed, swaying between incredulity and annoyance.

"Aye, me. Ouch," said the damn kid from the tavern, "I think you broke my nose."

"It's your brain that is broken and I had nothing to do with that. Quiet down, for Heaven's sake!"

"Ouch," repeated the kid, though quieter.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Gwaine whispered.

"That's what I should be asking you, Sir. Don't you know it's frightfully bad manners to step on people?" The kid fingered his face and gave a yelp which made Gwaine jump.

"Bloody...keep it down! How was I supposed to know you were loitering about down here?"

"True, I gue-...lice of lies! I'm terribly sorry. Mea culpa. I'll make it up to you, I swear, I just can't...I'm sorry!" he whispered very quickly, jumping up. The next second he had grabbed the branch above his head and swung himself up soundlessly. Gwaine had never seen anybody disappear that quickly.

"What..." he muttered, turning around. Then he saw 'what'. Or rather, 'what' hit him square in the face and knocked out his lights. The last thing he thought before everything went dark was that sticking your nose into other people's business always, always gets you into trouble.

/~/

_Okay, so next time (hopefully not next year), Gwaine is sober for real and definitely in trouble...it doesn't get any better from there. Also, a certain somebody talks too much and we just might find out who 'she' is. Or not, I really don't know, I'm ignoring my own previews from now on._


	11. Phantom Voices of the World Below

_For once not many months later, the next instalment. I decided to split it in two parts again, but the next chapter is going to be up tomorrow. Call it a Christmas-present... I'm always worried I'm going to slow...tell me if my pace is beginning to wear down your patience. I would love some feedback on my second OC, not to worry, no pairings involved in this case._

_/~/~/_

**Chapter 10:**

**Phantom Voices of the World Below**

Gwaine wiggled his hands a little. His effort was immediately rewarded by about a million needles stabbing them. He had lost count of how many times he had cursed his curiosity, his sense of responsibility and the damn kid these past two nights, but he felt that no amount was enough to relieve his dissatisfaction.

The first thing he had seen when he had woken up was a gigantic patch of mould growing on the opposite wall. He had instantly known that he would most definitely not like anything he would see from that moment on.

He had been right, of course. Neither the barren walls, the cold stone-ground, nor the small heaps of rodent bones scattered across the floor catered to his tastes in interior decoration. Some people like to be reminded of their own mortality, but Gwaine was not one of them.

His mood had hit rock bottom when, as the first day of his imprisonment drew to a close, he had realised that his captors were apparently not planning on feeding him any time soon. Or at all. The sturdy door remained firmly shut and Gwaine remained cold, hungry, and most importantly, he remained all that while painfully sober.

Now it was already the second night falling. Absolutely nothing had happened to make his mood any less gloomy or his thoughts any more charitable. Some light fell through the tiny barred window high above his head and drew a small orange patch on the ground to his feet. Watching it change position and size was his only way of knowing the time of day. At the moment, the patch was rapidly growing smaller, hence his conclusion that it must be nightfall. Soon he would be shrouded in complete darkness and that was when the voice would start taunting him again.

The voice – his only companion in this inhospitable place, and a companion he would have gladly done without. An echoing whisper, sometimes far away, somewhere in the depths of the house, sometimes closer, right outside the door. And sometimes, right next to him, whispering in his ear. Yet, he knew for a fact that he was all alone and that left only two possibilities open: Either it was the ghost of some poor unfortunate soul who had died down here and was now kindly informing Gwaine that he was soon to follow. Or he was losing his mind. Neither option was very desirable, but in the latter case, Gwaine would have hoped that his subconsciousness might be just a bit less intent on making him uncomfortable. The words of the rhyme he knew by heart now, having listened to them over and over and over:

"_Rock a bye man, under the tree,_

_when the day breaks, he makes a noise,_

_when the sun rises, he's locked in a cell,_

_and starved is the man and he goes to hell."_

He briefly pondered the implications of his own mind making up twisted nursery-rhymes about his death and torturing him with them. Probably lots and lots of self-loathing – wasn't that what they said about people who engaged in self-destructive behaviour? Because the way this song was wearing down his morale definitely qualified as destructive.

Not that his morale could get much lower. He had spent hours and hours struggling against the chains around his wrists and ankles and had even tried to pick the locks with some of the sturdier rodent bones. His troubles had been rewarded with nothing but sore wrists, a heap of shattered bones and an enormous sense of frustration.

Even if by some miracle he managed to get out of the chains, there was still the door between him and a chance at freedom. Maybe if someone had come in every once in a while to provide him with food, he could have used that opportunity to escape – but that hadn't happened and therefore, Gwaine's efforts at getting out of the ropes had gone from enthusiastic to increasingly half-hearted until they had finally ceased completely.

Gwaine leaned back, softly banging the back of his head against the wall in the faint hope that he'd shake up some helpful idea that way.

His only realistic hope was that Goatee And Company had some sort of plan for him, other than letting him starve to death. After all, if that was their intention, why hadn't they just killed him on the spot when they discovered him in the yard?

That was a good question indeed – but it was the only part of this whole disaster he was not going to complain about. He liked being alive in general, though he wasn't enjoying it much at the moment.

The orange patch on the floor had disappeared, the blackness around him was pressing against his eyes. Gwaine closed them, listening. Soon- yes, there it was.

A soft murmur stirring the air like a breeze, growing louder by the second. Now it was outside the door, now ghostly lips were whispering the words into his ear, the disembodied voice dancing around him.

"_...when the day breaks, he makes a noise..._"

Gwaine had never thought much about what would happen to him when he died. Sure enough, he had been in life-threatening situations more than once. Far too often, probably. But at such times, he usually preferred to think of ways to stay alive, instead of musing about the after-life.

This time however, he found himself with plenty of empty time on his hands, time that wanted to be filled with something. His mind chose against his will to ask uncomfortable questions. What did happen to people when they died?

"_...when the sun rises, he's locked in a cell..._"

Gwaine wasn't much one for religion. He had grown up being told that there was a God up in heaven, that from him man came and to him man returned. Gwaine didn't have any other explanation for his own existence and he couldn't be bothered to spend his time coming up with one, therefore he had listened and accepted. His faith – if it could be called that – was not based upon conviction or some spiritual experience, it was mere convenience. He knew to believe like, say, he knew how to read. It was a matter of course, he'd never given it much thought.

"_...and starved is the man and he goes to hell..._"

Though that was not entirely true, strictly speaking. Way back, when he'd been a boy, he had sometimes felt a something pushing against the edges of his mind - right in that moment when you are not quite awake any more, but still aware of the darkness surrounding you. A question that begged to be pondered, but that, once asked, could never be answered and that would remain with him the rest of his life and instil fear.

What if there was no God?

"_...rock a bye man, under the window..._"

What if, at the end of it all, it turned out that life was just one big cosmic joke and the punchline was that when you died, you just ceased to be? Everything you were, everything you did, everything you ever thought, just went out like a candle? If that held true, nothing made any sense. Why should one fight, why should one get out of bed, hell, why should one even breathe, if a person's life was like one little flame in a big fire, pretty for the time being, but inconsequential all things considered? Even the fire would burn out after a while.

What did it feel like to...just not be?

"_...when the day breaks, he makes a noise..._"

Of course it didn't feel like anything. When you don't exist, you can't feel, and once it got to that point, Gwaine wouldn't care either way. But in that moment between awareness and sleep, Gwaine sometimes could, just for a split-second, grasp the fleeting idea of non-being before it slipped away.

That was what scared him, really scared him. Going to hell was something he could imagine, something he could somehow understand, even though he did not much fancy the idea of it. Not being, on the other hand...

"._..when the sun rises, he's locked in a cell..._"

This place, barely light enough to know that there was indeed a room, was so much like that one second before falling asleep. The taunting song and the irons around his ankles and wrists kept reminding him that he was probably going to die here and that there was not much he could do about it.

"_...and starved is the man and he goes to hell..._"

"Oh, go away!" Gwaine said, knowing it was useless. It did, however, make him feel a little better to hear his own voice. "I've had it with you."

"Sorry to hear that, but understandable under the circumstances." Gwaine's eyes snapped open. That was new; a response. A different voice, too, though equally familiar.

"Of course, if you really want me to, I'll leave, but-" There was a scratching at the door and a click. The door swung open with a screech.

"There you go, the mechanism is an insult, really...But I figured you might fancy coming along and what not."

"Who...You!" Gwaine exclaimed as he recognised for a second time his young foil from the tavern and, most recently, the yard.

"Aye, me, we already covered that. Don't scream, will you? It's not very conductive to the whole stealth thing and all that," he whispered, quickly stepping inside the room and closing the door until it was only slightly ajar.

"You got me caught!" There was a brief silence as the boy paused in crossing the room.

"Yeah...that wasn't very nice of me, I'm afraid. Minor inconvenience, I didn't plan on it. But not to worry, I can work around that." He closed the rest of the distance between them and crouched down beside Gwaine.

"A _minor inconvenience_? I'll show you a minor inconvenience and then we can see if you can work around being dead, too," Gwaine growled. Neither the kid's almost cheerful tone nor his casual unconcern seemed to do any justice to his predicament.

"No, being dead would be a major inconvenience and next to impossible to work around. I respectfully request restraint, good Sir, if you want me to set you free. I say;" he said, "that was an alliteration. Awesome, don't you think?" Gwaine did not think it was awesome _or_ appropriately timed and he said so, very colourfully. The kid paid no heed to him, lifting one of Gwaine's hands to his eyes and quietly humming to himself.

"You know," he said, tapping the iron-cuff with one finger, "these are some beauties. Old Mercian design, adjustable in size...harder than steel forged in noric fire, as they say. It's the increased ratio of carbon to iron that does it...They'd fetch a dashing price with the right buyer."

"I'm glad it's love at first sight for you guys," said Gwaine dryly, "does that mean you can't open them?"

"The lock I can't crack has not yet been invented, good Sir, and these are most definitely not state of the art. A chain is only as strong as its weakest lock they say..." the kid said, examining a ring of assorted lock-picks in his hand.

"Mhno, won't fit...here we go, this is it." He inserted the pick into the keyhole, wiggled it a little and twisted. The manacle snapped open. Gwaine flexed his fingers while the kid moved on to his feet.

"How did you find me?" he asked, a bit mellowed out by the circulation returning to his digits. After all, the house had seemed pretty big from the outside and the kid hadn't even checked whether he was indeed inside before picking the lock to the cell.

"Oh, that was easy. Check your right pocket, but keep still. By the way, this is definitely not roses I'm smelling," the kid said with a disdainful sniff. Gwaine pursed his lips and shrugged. He wanted to see the kid do any better after being locked up for two days straight. At least he'd had enough leeway to move a bit to the side, as little as it was. He reached into his pocket as the kid had said and his fingers closed around something round and cold about the size of a finger-tip. He pulled it out.

"What is this?" he wanted to know, holding it close to his eyes. It looked a pebble with some kind of pattern etched into it.

"Keep still, I told you, now I've lost it – who makes foot cuffs more complicated than hand cuffs? It makes absolutely no sense, even to me, and people keep telling me I've got none...It's a polar rune. If you have a compass to go with it, you can locate it anywhere. I slipped it in your pocket back in the yard." The second cuff at his feet snapped open and the kid moved on to the last manacle chaining Gwaine to the wall.

"Why?"

"That's obvious, isn't it? I was going to come back for you once I- dog's piss." A long shadow had fallen into the room. Gwaine looked up and saw the outlines of a bulky figure against the light of a torch.

"Don't move. I've got a crossbow on you," Shiny grunted.

"Does he?" the boy asked calmly.

"He does," Gwaine replied, his eyes glued to the tip of the bolt, gleaming in the flickering light.

"Why, that's not very nice of him, is it?" asked the kid. Gwaine threw him a glance.

"Turn around slowly, hands in the air," Shiny instructed, taking a couple of steps into the room. Behind him, Gwaine could see the figure of his companion.

"I say, that's confusing. You don't want me to move, but I've got to, if you want me to turn around," the kid said slowly. "Which is it?" Shiny gave a growl and took a couple more steps into the room.

"Don't go getting smart on us," Humpty Dumpty said from behind him.

"I'm not, I'm just making sure I got your instructions right. I wouldn't want you to think I was up to something." The kid's right hand, hidden from both And Company's sight by his body, closed around Gwaine's free hand and pressed the picks into it. Shiny moved in even closer, the tip of his crossbow now mere inches from the kid's head.

"I told you to turn around, ya breeder."

"So you want me to move?" The kid's hand retracted slowly towards his waist, "and there's really no need for foul language, we had this discussion before. It's bad form to insult an opponent."

"You're not an opponent, you're a stob if ya don't do as we say," growled Humpty Dumpty. Shiny's crossbow looked very eager to fulfil its purpose in life.

"Like I said..." the kid complained.

"Maybe you should do as they say," Gwaine said quietly when Shiny moved in closer yet. The kid gave a hiss and a click of the tongue.

"Et tu, Brute?" he asked, and if the situation hadn't been so serious, Gwaine would have laughed at the heavily exaggerated disbelief in his voice.

"Did ya just call me a brute?" growled Shiny.

"What now? Who's talking about you? Brutus was...well, it's kind of like calling someone Judas. You know who _Judas_ was, right?" There was a break in which Humpty Dumpty and Shiny looked at each other. The kid sighed.

"Never mind. Should have known that a stupid, ugly ghoul like you with less brains than a flea wouldn't-"

Things went very quickly from then. Shiny, his patience worn out, leapt forward, the kid whirled around and threw himself at the man's knees. The torch in Shiny's hand clattered to the ground. There was a roar of pain, the string of the crossbow released with a hiss. The bolt struck the wall next to Gwaine's head, vibrating.

"Idiot!" yelled the knight.

"I'll talk you through the last one!" yelled the kid, scrambling to his feet and barely dodging a swipe of Humpty Dumpty's sword. Shiny was rolling on the floor, groaning and holding his knee. Dark fluid was seeping between his fingers.

"It's a simple single!" the kid shouted, "So you've got to..." He yelped and yet again dodged out of the reach of a deadly blow, "Insert the short end into the lock, first straight..." Shiny had gotten up and unsheathed a long knife, "Then upwards! When you got space, turn it to your right!" Shiny swung his knife, something flashed in the kid's hand, there was a metallic ringing. The two combatants stopped for a second, Shiny bearing down on the kid, whose knees were slowly giving in. Again a flash of light, Shiny gave a startled grunt and the kid jumped backwards, shaking the hand holding a small dagger violently. Gwaine imagined it was well on the way to being numb from the force of Shiny's blow.

"Wiggle carefully till it catches! Then turn counter-clockwise!" the kid yelled. Gwaine, his hands shaking annoyingly as excitement took hold of him, followed his instructions. It took him what seemed like an eternity to even insert the pick into the tiny keyhole. If only he had more light! If only the kid had unlocked both his hands first!

His head shot up when the kid screamed, distracting him once again. Shiny had him by the scruff of the neck, Humpty Dumpty was brandishing his blade. The kid struggled and wiggled, pushed himself of the ground and kicked Humpty Dumpty in the face while the back of his head collided with Shiny's chin. He was probably going for the nose, but he was too short to reach.

Still, his actions had the desired effect; both And Company roared and Shiny loosened his grip just enough for the kid to slip through his fingers, tumbling to the ground and rolling out of the reach of their groping hands and stomping feet. Gwaine cursed and refocused on the lock.

"Just don't rush it! Patience is the key to any lock!"

'Don't rush it' was easier yelled than done, considering that the kid had just annoyed two murderous, armed men into coming after him and continued to do so. Gwaine inserted the pick, but no matter how much he twisted and wiggled, he found no resistance.

"Counter-Clockwise!" repeated the kid. Gwaine growled in exasperation. He could do this without the instructions of a twelve-year-old! If only he could manage to keep his attention focused on the task, that was. The ringing of steel on steel and And Company's graphic death-threats were making it hard.

"Are you turning it counter-clockwise?" yelled the kid running past Gwaine. That wasn't helping either, curse him! Shiny followed in his wake, tripped over Gwaine and fell flat on his face. Gwaine dropped the ring of picks and it slithered across the floor. Shiny got back on his feet and gave a furious roar, chasing after the kid, who once more slipped between his arms, sidestepped Humpty Dumpty and shot across the room. The stench of smoke filled the room, some straw on the ground having caught fire on the torch. It bit in Gwaine's eyes as he searched the ground for the lock-picks. There they were, to his right! He groped for them, but the hand still chained to the wall kept holding him back.

And Company kept shouting profanities at the kid and the kid kept shouting back worse, taunting them into coming after him. They had probably completely forgotten about Gwaine by now.

The knight stretched his body as far as he could, trying to get at the lock-picks with his feet. Just a little more...just a little...There! He had them! He slipped the ring over his foot and reeled it in. Which pick had it been? There were so many and Gwaine, though he had some grasp on the basics, found himself overwhelmed. What had the kid said about the lock? That it was a simple single? A single warded lock, and 'simple' probably meant no obstacles, so it was one of the flat picks that looked like a hook. Gwaine tried the first, but it was too big. He moved on to the next. And the next. In just how many sizes did these things come? There was no possible way that there was such a variety of locks!

Gwaine checked on the progress of the fight with a quick glance. The kid was very fast, very nimble and very slippery and this was obviously not the first time he was in a fight. And Company were big, heavy and much slower, but there were two of them and they had at least twice his experience. Their weapons had longer reach, they had to move less and, stupid as they were, they had made fighting their one purpose in life. For now, the kid was escaping, but Gwaine could already see him slowing down, his breath was going faster, heavier and more irregular. He was being worn down slowly but surely. Soon one of those wide blows would land.

Finally! The pick he was currently trying slipped into the keyhole. He closed his eyes, banished the sounds of the fight, banished all unnecessary thoughts and focused. There was only him, the pick and the lock. Wiggle...carefully...feel it catch...twist, don't rush it...click. The manacle snapped open. Gwaine was free!

He shot to his feet, grabbed the chain that had connected his feet and threw himself at the And Company closest to him. Both men were thrust to the ground by the momentum, each struggling to gain the upper hand. Gwaine slung the chain around his adversaries neck and pulled as hard as he could. His hands, wet with nervous sweat, slipped on the metal and Shiny – for it was Shiny – broke free, his hand pulling another knife from his belt. It slit the fabric of Gwaine's jacket. Gwaine decided he'd rather have chivalry die than him and landed a well aimed blow to the groin. Shiny dropped his knife again and screamed. Gwaine thrust his elbow in his solar plexus, pinned him to the ground with one knee to the throat, reached for the knife, found it, ripped it up-

"THAT'S ENOUGH! ONE MORE MOVE AND HE DIES!"

Gwaine whirled around. Humpty Dumpty had finally managed to catch his slippery prey and was now holding him in a dead-lock, a dagger to his throat. Gwaine cursed. The kid was still struggling, but it was a waste of effort. Humpty Dumpty had him well and secure.

"That's mine, you rotten brute! And I don't mean Judas!" he spat, scratching at Humpty Dumpty's arm. The large man leered.

"Not any more, it ain't."

"You'll regret this, I swear you will! One doesn't turn a body's weapon on them, you breeder, that's bad style and-"

"Shut up!" Gwaine and Humpty Dumpty shouted at the same time. The kid gave an angry hiss, but he didn't say anything further.

"Now you!" Humpty Dumpty said, nodding at Gwaine, "Drop it, nice and slow." Gwaine thought of the way the kid had complained about how 'don't move' and 'turn around' were contradictory and though he didn't voice his doubts, he did wonder how one dropped a knife 'nice and slow'. To his knowledge, things dropped at the same speed, no matter what you wanted them to do.

"Why don't you let him go and in turn I don't kill your friend?" Gwaine asked instead, holding the knife over Shiny. The kid opened his mouth again and Gwaine already felt exasperated before he could get a word out. His hand tightened around the hilt of the knife. It wouldn't be of much help, Humpty Dumpty was holding his hostage like a shield in front of his body, but if the kid managed to annoy him into slashing his throat, Humpty Dumpty wouldn't live to grunt about it.

"I say, we're at a bit of an impasse here, aren't we? Also, it seems to me fairly inadvisable to drop your only weapon in a fight, don't you agree?" Gwaine groaned inwardly. There just had to be something wrong with this boy's head. He must be either insane, or slow, or both. Humpty Dumpty seemed to have come to the same conclusion.

"I think you don't quite grasp how this works, boy," he said slowly, "Me: dagger, in control and telling you what to do. You: tremble in fear, shut up and listen." As much as Gwaine didn't like it, that sounded like a very sensible suggestion under the circumstances. The kid seemed to ponder it for a while. Gwaine was almost daring to hope that he'd finally come to see reason once the situation was explained to him in such simple terms.

"No," the kid finally said pensively, "no, I don't think I like your interpretation of the situation much. Alternative version: I count to three and...I'm sorry, what's your name good Sir?" He looked at Gwaine expectantly.

"Gwaine," said the knight, too stunned by the absurdity of this whole situation to respond in a more appropriate way.

"Good Sir Gwaine, huh? Nice to meet you, barring the circumstances. I'm Wynn. As in 'Bliss he enjoys who knows not pain, sorrow nor anxiety, and himself has prosperity and bliss and a good enough house', not victory."

"What?" Gwaine asked dumbfounded. Humpty Dumpty was also looking extremely confused and even Shiny gave voice. Gwaine jammed his knee deeper into his throat.

"It's the rune poem that goes with it. Nice, isn't it? A bit redundant, 'bliss enjoys he who has bliss', that's logic for you, but nice nevertheless. And I guess _having_ bliss and _enjoying_ bliss aren't necessarily the same thing, I mean-" the boy went on rambling something incomprehensible about the nature of happiness. He had cracked, definitely. There was no other explanation for what Gwaine was hearing here. Shiny gave another noise and Gwaine looked down. The man was already turning blue, Gwaine's knee cutting off his air-supply. Maybe, if Gwaine could drag this out just a little longer...But no. He would never get to Humpty Dumpty in time. He took a little weight of his knee. Humpty Dumpty probably wouldn't take too kindly to his companion suffocating.

"...never mind all that. As I was saying, I've got a way to resolve this situation. At the count of three, good Sir Gwaine over there kills you," Wynn said, catching Gwaine's attention. Humpty Dumpty broke out in laughter and even Gwaine felt some nervous chuckles coming up.

"You're insane, boy," Humpty Dumpty said, voicing out what Gwaine was thinking, "I'm curious to see how he's going to pull that off, unless he wants to go through you."

"Well, I hate to say it, but I don't think he likes me very much at the moment and I don't know him very well, so he just might...would you?" Wynn asked, looking at Gwaine. Gwaine stared back at him.

"Is that a 'no'? Splendid, I wouldn't have liked that much. Luckily, it won't come to that. Why don't we just try and see what happens? One," the boy said. Gwaine's heart skipped a beat. Bloody hell, the bastard was serious about this! What was he planning to do? One move, one flinch from Humpty Dumpty and the kid was dead!

"Two." Every muscle in Gwaine's body tensed up, his hand gripping the hilt of the knife so tight it hurt. There just had to be some way to stop this insanity. Humpty Dumpty looked completely perplexed. Gwaine couldn't blame him. He was stupid, after all, not crazy, and it takes one to understand one.

"Three!" Wynn yelled. At the same moment as his hand shot away from Humpty Dumpty's arm and slammed against the pommel of the dagger, his foot swung against the large man's shin. Something flashed, blinding Gwaine for a split-second, Humpty Dumpty roared, Wynn dropped. Dead or alive, Gwaine did not know and he didn't stop to check.

He leapt forward, the knife firmly in his hand. His body collided hard with the larger man's, the blow that had been intended for the chest went to the gut. But it served it's purpose. Humpty Dumpty stumbled backwards, his eyes glued to the hilt sticking out of his body, a dark patch rapidly growing larger around it. Gwaine let go. The man looked at Gwaine and opened his mouth. A little blood trickled out of it. Then he dropped, his body hitting the ground with a hollow thud. Gwaine remained standing over him, breathing hard. He had completely forgotten about Wynn and Shiny until he suddenly heard a yelp.

"Stay down!" Wynn screamed. In the corner of Gwaine's eye there was a movement. Gwaine whirled around, too fast. He stepped on Humpty Dumpty's body and slipped, falling against the wall. Shiny was charging at him with a furious roar. Wynn screamed again, groping for something on the ground and jumped up, shooting forward. Shiny collided with him, both of them froze for a moment, then they slowly sank to their knees. They sat perfectly still, both their hands holding on to something shielded from Gwaine's sight by Wynn's body. Which one was it?

Shiny swayed lightly and crumpled. A long shaft was sticking out of his chest. One of the bolts from the crossbow that Shiny had lost when Wynn tackled him the first time. The boy remained sitting upright with his back to Gwaine.

"Gwaine..." Wynn muttered slowly, "I don't think I know what that means. Do you?" Gwaine wasn't sure what exactly he was talking about, until he asked again.

"Do you know what your name means?" Shiny gave a soft gurgling sound and the boy stiffened.

"No," Gwaine said, his hand relaxing around the hilt.

"You should though. It's what people call you all the time. You should know what people are calling you," Wynn said. His tone was completely calm, but Gwaine recognised a certain strained quality underneath it. The boy bent over Shiny.

"What's your name?" he asked softly. Shiny gave a response that Gwaine couldn't make out.

"Arthog? It means 'like a bear'. It suits you very well. A good name. I'll remember it," Wynn said. Gwaine watched wordlessly as Shiny – no, Arthog – gave a last gurgle, coughed, and went still. Wynn remained sitting by his side, silent.

"There's nothing quite like it," he finally said, still eerily calm, "looking into a person's eyes when they die. They say death is the last sleep. But you aren't afraid when you fall asleep, are you? He looked scared, and surprised. I wonder why they say that when it's nothing alike."

"I don't know," Gwaine said quietly. He knew what was happening here, he'd seen it before. It didn't really matter what he said, Wynn was most likely not listening to him.

"He should have stayed down, you know? I told him to stay down. They shouldn't have been here. I watched them, to make sure. Their orders were to watch the gate the entire night, that's what they said. They didn't like it much, they kept complaining. I wonder why they came down here?"

"I don't know," Gwaine repeated.

"Maybe I made a mistake. Maybe they noticed me coming in? There have been too many of those lately, mistakes. I think I've grown too confident, too proud. The gods have never looked kindly on excessive pride. 'Delusions and seething ambition. No man can know what comes stealthily creeping over his life until too late, hot ashes and pain'," Wynn muttered, "sang the chorus and then they all died, the whole line down to the last poor girl, all because they were too proud."

"Is this," Gwaine said hesitantly, beginning to feel more than just a little concerned, "your first time?" If it was, this might turn into a real problem. No two people ever reacted exactly the same way, but there were general categories. Those who started talking confused stuff like Wynn was doing now, usually followed up with a complete break-down. He didn't feel up to dealing with something like that. Wynn shook his head slowly.

"No...But I don't think I'll ever get used to it. Do you really not know what your name means?"

"Wynn-" Gwaine started, stepping closer, but the boy interrupted him by raising a hand.

"No, I get it, you don't know. It doesn't matter. Don't worry, I'm not going to freak out on you. My good spirits will pull a Lazarus soon enough, they always do. I just need a moment here." Gwaine nodded and backed away a little. Something clattered under his feet. He looked down and picked it up. It was the dagger Humpty Dumpty – what had his real name been? – had held against Wynn's throat, Gwaine recognised the shape. It looked a little like a disproportionate trident, the cross-guard curving towards a much longer, very slim blade. An inscription ran down the full length of the blade on both sides. Gwaine held it up and squinted at the small script. '_We are the shadows to the light, to every day the framing night;_' and on the other side, '_Through contrast burns the flame twice bright which to protect eternally we pledge our might_'. Gwaine lifted an eyebrow. Poetry had always sounded very much the same to him, but this felt familiar beyond that.

The hilt lay strange in his hand and he examined it. There were two small levers, one close to the cross-guard, one at the pommel. Gwaine flipped one of them over. There was a click, a soft hiss and to his surprise, the blade spun on its own axis until it was at a ninety-degree angle to it's previous position. Gwaine stared at it. So that was how Wynn had escaped having his throat slashed open.

"I told him it wasn't a good idea to use it against me. It's called a Flicker Blade, on account of the light-effect." Gwaine looked up and found Wynn watching him. He sounded normal now, the strange calmness replaced by a much lighter tone and there was nothing in his face to indicate that he had just been doing what could only be called rambling.

"It's useful for when your opponent has you in a lock. Or if someone tries that, though it was more of an improvised application. Can't say I care much for the razor burn," the boy went on, rubbing his throat.

"Dashed unpleasant things, those, and people always assume you don't know how to shave properly."

"I don't think anybody's going to assume that," Gwaine replied, picking up on the change in mood readily, "Nobody is going to think that you need to shave."

"Oi! I don't appreciate that, not at all. I'm almost sixteen, you know?"

"My apologies, oh-ancient-one," Gwaine said, smiling at the indignation swinging in Wynn's voice. It was a relief to hear him speak like a kid again. For a couple of moments he had sounded like someone much older and it had made Gwaine uneasy.

"That's why I don't see the point in being cordial to your elders," Wynn muttered, "they never return the favour. Respect is supposed to be reciprocal. Give me a hand up, will you?" Gwaine stepped closer to take the hand Wynn was stretching out at him but stopped short of it.

"Wynn!" he exclaimed, staring at the boy's right shoulder. A knife was embedded in it, blood seeping into the light fabric of Wynn's jacket. The boy followed his glance and gave a startled cry.

"Lord Ruler of- that's a knife!"

"Very observant," Gwaine said dryly.

"But...that's not supposed to be there!"

"You think so?"

"Do I think so? I know so! It's my shoulder and there are no knifes supposed to be in my shoulder!" Wynn said, pointing at the offending object accusingly. "I really don't appreciate...oh. Oh, crap. Now, this is a dashed bit of a problem."

"You just have to put some pressure on it," Gwaine said, searching the room for something that would serve the purpose, "can't be that bad if you didn't even notice it until now."

"No, I can't feel it," Wynn muttered. Gwaine knelt down beside Humpty Dumpty and searched his clothes. Of course, no handkerchief, what had he expected? He regarded the man's clothes dubiously. Personal hygiene had probably not been one of his priorities, judging from his looks. Gwaine's clothes, after two days down here, were in no better state.

"I think we should use your sleeve, it's ruined anyway," he said, looking up at Wynn. "Holy...! What are you doing...!" he leapt forward, but it was too late, Wynn had pulled out the knife already. Gwaine cursed and pressed his hand against the wound.

"Moron! What do you think you're doing? First you-"

"I can't feel it," Wynn repeated, looking at him.

"Yes, well, you will soon enough and you won't like it," the knight snapped.

"No, you don't get it. I can't feel it. My arm, I can't feel my arm. At all," Wynn said, tugging at his sleeve. His arm swung listlessly and came to a rest.

"What?" Gwaine asked sharply, grabbing the boy's wrist and pulling up his arm. It felt limp.

"Try making a fist," he instructed. Both of them stared at Wynn's hand, but nothing happened.

"Oh crap. Oh..." Wynn groaned, "I'm trying, but there's nothing! Oh no...Lord Ruler of Mischief, this is really bad. I mean, that's not supposed to happen, right?" He stared at Gwaine, his face white. The knight bit his lip.

"It happens, sometimes. The shock, it does all kinds of funny things. Let's get that bleeding under control first," he muttered, averting his eyes and pulling off Wynn's jacket. Luckily, the blade hadn't pierced the shoulder completely.

"Now, put your hand here and apply pressure," he said, putting Wynn's hand on the wound and beginning to cut off the sleeve of his tunic. Wynn watched him quietly for a while as he cut the fabric into stripes.

"You know, Augustine of Hippo thought that the soul and the body are like marriage," he said casually, "In 'De Animae Quantitate' he writes that the soul is 'a certain substance, partaking in reason, and fitted to ruling the body'. It infuses it with life. There's an old belief that when Death comes to collect the soul of a man fallen in battle, he takes a piece of the soul of his killer as payment for the extra trouble. Maybe he took the part of my soul that animates my arm, what do you think?"

"I think that you're talking nonsense," Gwaine said, wrapping Wynn's shoulder tightly.

"Of course I'm talking nonsense. It's the only thing worth saying to a person you respect. If it's a sensible thing and you respect their powers of reason, you'd have to assume that they will have already thought of it, wouldn't you? Therefore, talking sense is an insult to their intelligence." Gwaine finished fixing the bandages and looked up.

"So, I'm supposed to take your headache-inducing chattering as a compliment, is that it?" he asked, holding up the boy's jacket. Wynn took it and put it on, briefly struggling to get his arm through the sleeve. When he looked back at Gwaine, he was grinning.

"It's headache-inducing, is it? I guess it must be, Ceri also always says that. She doesn't think it's a compliment though, just annoying. She always threatens to strangle me if I don't shut up."

"I can see how that could happen," Gwaine said. "You ready to move it along? I've spent two days down here and I can't say I much care for the décor."

"No...no, it's rather ghastly, isn't it? I mean, what _is_ that?" Wynn asked, waving his hand at the mouldy patch, "Is mould supposed to look like that?"

"I'm not sure," Gwaine replied, "and I don't really care. I want to get out of here before Goatee discovers what happened to his friends."

"Who now?" Wynn said, blinking, "Oh, you mean the guy with the ridiculous facial decoration? His name is Monksfield and he isn't around any more."

"He left?"

"Made of the morning after they caught you with a horse and enough provisions to last him for days. I tried following, but I had to turn back after a while."

"Lost him, eh?" Gwaine asked, feeling frustrated again. With And Company dead and Goatee gone, he had little chance to get answers to those questions that had landed him here in the first place.

"I didn't lose him, I let him go. I promised you to make it up to you, didn't I? Well, here I am and there you go and off he went."

"You wouldn't happen to know where to?" Gwaine wanted to know. Wynn shrugged.

"He told Arthog and his friend to meet up in Hadrot in four days, so I hope he's going to be there. Otherwise I can start all over again. I've been tracking my property for months now and back in the tavern I almost had it, it's rather infuriating," he said, and though he didn't sound infuriated, he did sound sorely disappointed.

"Well, never mind that all, I'll catch up at some point, I've got a good idea of where he is ultimately going, though I sure rather wouldn't let it get that far...I believe you made a grand suggestion there, I'm all for it. Let's go. But before that..." he stretched out his hand and looked at Gwaine expectantly. Gwaine looked back at him, not sure what he was getting at.

"My Flicker Blade. And my polar rune. _And_ my lock-picks. Honestly, people just keep on pocketing my stuff, I find it widely inappropriate," he complained. Gwaine chuckled and handed the dagger to him.

"What's with the engraving?" he asked, picking up the torch, which was already burning very low and searching the ground for the rest of Wynn's possessions.

"The engraving? Oh, that. It means that if you want to enjoy the nice things in life, you've got to be ready to get your hands dirty, basically. Or have someone do it for you."

"I wasn't asking for an interpretation," Gwaine muttered, finally locating the small rune-stone in a far corner.

"I know you weren't," Wynn grinned. Gwaine raised an eyebrow at him.

"State secret, is it?" he asked. The boy looked at him curiously, then he laughed.

"Of course it isn't. It's part of a longer poem, the motto of an old Escetian noble line. I was in service with the family for a while, before Cenred had them all killed a couple of years back. The dagger is something of a keepsake."

"Uplifting motto," Gwaine said, handing over polar-rune and lock-picks. This explained why the rhymes had felt familiar. Many families had such things, parts of them usually appearing on their weaponry or their crests. There were far too many to know them all by heart, but one remembered parts.

"They were a cheery bunch to match it," Wynn said with a shrug, storing his property in his pockets "very serious, very dedicated to their traditions. Unfortunately, being decent people was one of them. Wherever it concerned those, 'off with their heads' was Cenred's darling motto." Gwaine nodded. He knew about the assassinations and public executions, he'd even witnessed one or two back when he was living in Segoncaer. After Cenred had taken the throne about ten years ago, he had made it a point to get rid of anyone who was part of the old order and a perceived threat to his rule. Those kinds of things often happened when a new line took over, Uther had cleaned up Camelot in a similar fashion after his conquest. Though he hadn't gone about it quite as indiscriminately as Cenred had.

"Well then, shall we?" he asked, pointing at the door. Wynn nodded.

"Leave the torch though," he said, "Now, I'm more of an expert on breaking in rather than breaking out, but the principles should be about the same. Monksfield might not be around, but who knows what else is crawling about in this place." Wynn shivered lightly before he continued, "I haven't seen anybody else, but _somebody_ owns this architectonic abomination and they kept talking about some woman. It didn't sound like we would care much for her acquaintance."

Gwaine hesitated. Of course Wynn was right, but somehow the memory of the disembodied voice made him uncomfortable to move around the house in the dark. It had a spooky enough appearance from the outside, and though he had been unconscious when they brought him to his cell, he imagined the interior wasn't much better. The idea of walking around dark corridors, the morbid rhymes following after them, made his spine crawl.

He shook his head. This was ridiculous, he wasn't a little boy afraid of monsters lurking in the dark. In the first place, the voice was probably nothing but a part of his over-active imagination, brought to a peak by the gloomy atmosphere in this place.

He put down the torch in a holder on the wall and walked over to the door, peaking outside. The hallway lay dark and empty before him.

"'Thro' gliding spectres of the interr'd to go', off we are to seek not Persephone, but Elfteria," Wynn said cheerfully at his side, sticking his head out as well.

"Cut it out," Gwaine said with a shiver. He just had to go and talk of ghosts, did he? Wynn chuckled.

"You aren't scared of the dark, are you, good Sir Gwaine? Don't worry, there's enough torches on the walls to make it even spookier. Flickering lights, shadows moving, all those nice little things."

"I'm not scared," Gwaine snapped, stepping into the hall, "Don't be absurd."

"It's not that absurd. Lots of people don't like it much and if you ask me, it's sensible enough. You never know what lurks in the shadows. The wise man fears the danger he knows not, rather than the one he does."

"And thank you for the wisdom of the week," Gwaine muttered, "which way?" Wynn pointed to the right and they started down the hall. The stone-walls threw back the sounds of their steps as hollow echoes. Wynn quietly hummed a tune to himself, which Gwaine recognised as a particularly crude drinking song.

"Only time when people's ears don't start bleeding from my singing," Wynn said after he had finished, "I'm afraid I'm horribly tone-deaf, but echoes somehow always fix it."

"Weren't you going for stealth?" Gwaine asked peevishly. Wynn gave him a sheepish grin and shrugged. Gwaine rolled his eyes. Apparently he wasn't the only one crept out by the house.

"So you're from Escetia. The old capital, right?" he asked after a couple more steps. He had picked up on some distinct vocabulary in Wynn's conversation. The boy's head bobbed up and down.

"The mountains, originally, but I relocated when I was seven. Does it matter?"

"Not really, though I am wondering why Camelot appears to be crawling with Escetians these days. Don't you have your own country where you can conduct clandestine meetings and engage in shady activities?"

"Oh, but we do that there, too. However, in this economy you've got to think global to stay on top. You've got a beautiful market-gap here and crime is our one major export, you see?"

"You don't say," Gwaine said dryly. Wynn took a corner, stopped and turned back.

"I say, this is weird. There's supposed to be a staircase here," he muttered, tracing back his steps and looking up and down the hall.

"Maybe we went the wrong direction?" Gwaine asked. Wynn shot him an indignant glance and clicked his tongue.

"I think I can tell right from left, good Sir. See? Right," he wiggled his left hand, "and left," he pointed at his right arm, still hanging motionlessly at his side.

"Very funny," Gwaine said, though he did smile.

"It is though. You've got to reverse directions when you want to return the way you came. For all intents and purposes, my right is my left and the other way around. Makes me ambidextrous, too, even with just one hand."

"I don't think that's how it works," Gwaine said.

"Sure it does. In the first place, the physical world is just a matter of perception and as perception is a matter of the mind and as the mind is the only thing we can truly perceive, that which is in my mind must therefore be the truth as far as I can recognise it. Of course that's a human truth, not an objective one, but since the definition of 'left and right' is a human construct in the first place, my truth is no further from the objective truth than is anybody else's. Simple epistemological problem."

"Do really think this is the right time to be discussing epistemological problems, simple or otherwise?" Gwaine asked with a sigh.

"There is always time for intellectual exercise. It's the purest form of escapism there is and as I already mentioned, the mind is what rules the body...keep your mind well trained and the body will follow. Let's go further down that way, maybe I missed this corner in my count on the way down," Wynn said, pointing in the direction they had been going before he had turned the corner. Both of them continued on their way. Every time there was another corridor leading away from theirs, Wynn took it, walked a couple of steps back and forth and muttered quiet curses. None of them had any staircases. Gwaine followed him impatiently, but every time he suggested going back to check out the other direction, Wynn set his jaw defiantly and stubbornly proceeded trotting down his chosen path. Gwaine was just about to grab him by the scruff of the neck and drag him the other way, when they suddenly found themselves facing a naked wall. A dead end. Wynn gave a funny little noise and turned around.

"Lhooka's Dice," he muttered, his expression incredulous.

"Can we _now_ try the other way?" Gwaine asked, raising an eyebrow at the boy.

"Maybe we should try walking down one of those other halls some more," Wynn said dubiously.

"No!" Gwaine said decisively, "We've tried your way, now we're trying mine."

"But-" Wynn started, but Gwaine didn't give him the opportunity to argue more obscure nonsense and walked off. He'd had it. If Wynn wanted to walk up and down these hallways for all eternity, he was welcome to it. From where Gwaine was standing, the boy had not the slightest inkling about where he was going and when it came to guessing, Gwaine would rather trust his own gut than that of a twelve-year-old. He was already half-way back to his cell when he finally heard light steps catching up behind him.

"Come to see reason?" he asked, not turning around. There was no response. Gwaine threw a glance behind him. The hallway was dark, silent and empty. Gwaine stopped and slowly turned.

"Wynn?" he asked, straining his eyes in the darkness. Complete silence was his only response. He walked back a couple of steps and peered into one of the corridors leading away from the hallway he was currently in. His eyes met nothing but darkness.

"Wynn?" he repeated. There was a light giggle somewhere further down. Gwaine pursed his lips.

"Not funny," he muttered under his breath, following the sound. Another light giggle and tripling steps running away. Gwaine narrowed his eyes, mentally cursing the kid. Just what he needed now, games.

"Wynn, I'm not following you down there," he yelled. His voice bounced off the walls, creating a hollow murmur all around him. Gwaine cleared his throat and turned around to go back. Right behind him something rustled. He wheeled around, but there was nobody there.

His heart skipped a beat when he heard another giggle from the empty space right in front of him. Then it was suddenly behind him again, he turned, nothing. Again a sound in his back. Gwaine spun on his own axis. A cold draft brushed past him, making the hair in the back of his neck stand up and the steps ran down the corridor, back in the direction he had come from.

Gwaine chased after them, cursing. He reached the corner, turned and collided with an obstacle. He landed on his rear side rather ungracefully.

"Lice of...! What's your issue with my nose?" Wynn cursed, "Is it the freckles? I can't help it, you know?" Gwaine growled and grabbed him by the collar, shaking him a little.

"I'll show you issues!" he snapped, "Issues that won't let you sit down for weeks!"

"What now?" Wynn asked with a little squeak, "I say! You're freaking me out! And it _hurts_, rot it, let go!"

"_I _say," Gwaine hissed, "I'll wring that scrawny neck of yours if you pull anything like this again! This isn't the time for childish games!"

"I have no idea what you're talking about!" Wynn choked out, "_Let go!_ I can't breathe!" Gwaine gave him another shake and let go with a shove. Wynn fell backwards and coughed a couple of times.

"Have you gone _completely boots_?" he snapped, "What the hell?"

"What the hell is what I should be saying," Gwaine shot back, fuming, "What was that about?"

"What was _what_ about?" Wynn wailed, rubbing his throat, "I didn't do anything!"

"You're telling me you didn't just run past me, giggling like some madman?" Gwaine hissed. Wynn stared at him, eyes wide and started etching away slowly.

"Lord Ruler of Mischief, you _are_ boots. Barking boots! I did no such thing!"

"Wynn, if you're lying..." Gwaine said slowly, but the expression on the boy's face made him stop. He looked startled, a little bit scared and most importantly, genuinely confused.

"I'm not! Why would I do something like that?" he asked, shaking his head vehemently. Gwaine narrowed his eyes at him. The boy had absolutely no clue what he was talking about, he suddenly realised. He took a deep breath and raised his hands.

"Are you going to strangle me now?" Wynn asked dubiously, creeping away some more. Gwaine sighed and put his hands down.

"No," he muttered, feeling a little guilty. He had really freaked the boy out.

"Are you absolutely sure? Because I've taken this very strange fancy to breathing," Wynn said, "and I don't want to stop just because you have impulse-control issues."

"I'm sure. Sorry about that."

"Uh-huh," Wynn grumbled, looking very much put out. "Mind telling me what just happened here?"

"There was somebody here," Gwaine said, "I heard footsteps behind me and thought it was you, but when I turned around, I couldn't see anyone. Then there was some noise, I followed and somebody ran past me. I was chasing after them, that's when I crashed into you."

"And you thought it was me pulling a prank?" Wynn asked indignantly.

"What else was I supposed to think?"

"Well, it _wasn't_ me. I don't do pranks, not when I'm sneaking around in somebody else's house."

"Yes, I believe you," Gwaine said.

"Good. Because I don't. I just caught up to you when you ran me down and, by the way, I didn't see anybody coming out of that hallway. Are you sure you heard something?"

"I'm positive. There was someone here," Gwaine replied. Wynn shot him another dubious glance and pursed his lips.

"There was," Gwaine insisted.

"If you say so," Wynn said slowly, "I guess there must have been."

"I really did hear something," Gwaine repeated, feeling like he was a little boy being told by his father that if he said there was a monster under his bed, of course there had to be.

"No, I believe you, too. You seemed a little unstable just now, but I'm willing to overlook that on account of something really strange going on here."

"What do you mean?" Gwaine asked.

"I counted all the corners and hallways on our way down and I just counted again – the amount is definitely different and it's different from when I came in. I'll allow for the possibility of counting wrong once, but most certainly not twice. I've got a memory for these things, I've got to in my trade."

"What trade is that?" Gwaine asked absent-mindedly, trying to wrap his head around what Wynn had just said and what he had experienced himself.

"I'm in acquisitions, so to speak" Wynn replied gravely and Gwaine laughed in spite of himself, putting together one and one.

"Is that what you kids call it these days? Talk about fancy euphemism. We used to call it 'thieving'."

"Now, I resent that. I'm not a thief. An acquisitions specialist has a much broader field of expertise and some of my business is even legal. Well, it's legal-ish, in any case."

"More 'ish' than 'legal', I am sure," Gwaine said.

"Details," Wynn muttered dismissively, "it really depends on the perspective. What I want to know is what kind of perspective we're going to take on randomly appearing and disappearing hallways."

"And hearing invisible people," Gwaine added.

"And that," Wynn agreed.

"For one, we should get off the ground and going," Gwaine suggested and scrambled to his feet. Wynn followed his example with some difficulty.

"Throws me off balance," he muttered, regarding his arm with a dark glance.

"You still can't feel anything?" Gwaine asked. Wynn shook his head.

"Just a little unpleasantness in the shoulder. On the bright side," he said with a smile, "there's no pain, so that's good. I don't take very well to pain, it makes me grumpy and people don't generally enjoy my company when that happens. We're lucky." Gwaine grimaced and turned away, unable to stand the very fake unconcern in Wynn's face.

"What do you think?" he asked instead, "Try the other hallways like you said or go the other way from the cell?"

"Like you said, we tried my way, it's your turn," Wynn replied, "and you can take the lead, too." Gwaine nodded, grasped the sword he had taken from the cell firmer and continued down the hall. Beside him, Wynn had also put his hand on the hilt of his dagger.

The mood had turned much more cautious now. There was no conversation, both of them were listening for any kind of noise. Gwaine felt tense, his ears picking up on the slightest echo from their footsteps. He was also beginning to feel distinctly light-headed and he remembered that he hadn't eaten or drunk anything in two days. When he was just sitting around in his cell, it had been unpleasant and worrisome in the long haul, but of little immediate consequence. Now that he was moving around, with the possibility of being attacked looming in the air, it was giving him pause. He wanted to be alert and confident in his physical strength, but he was neither and that was making him very nervous.

"I say;" Wynn muttered, suddenly stopping, "this is it."

"What?" Gwaine asked.

"This is where the cell was," Wynn said, staring at the smooth wall. Gwaine frowned.

"There's nothing here."

"Yes, I can see that, but this is where it was, I'm positive," the boy replied, pointing at the ground. "See this?" Gwaine looked down and discovered two sets of dark footprints, first complete and strong, then partial and increasingly weaker. They seemed to come right out of the wall.

"Blood," Gwaine said, cowering down and examining the prints closer. Wynn raised a foot and showed Gwaine the sole of his boot. It matched the pattern of the smaller set of prints.

"Must have stepped into it, there was plenty of opportunity," he said quietly. Gwaine looked at the footprints again, then at the wall. There was no trace of a door, the stones looked as if they had been there for decades. He swallowed and looked up at Wynn, who returned his gaze as helplessly as Gwaine felt.

"Well, it doesn't matter," Gwaine said, trying to sound calm, "We'll just-"

But Wynn interrupted him by wordlessly pointing into the corridor. It ended a couple of metres further down. Gwaine turned back into the direction they had come from and his breath caught. There too, nothing but walls.

There was a scraping noise as Wynn leaned against the wall closest to him and slowly slid down.

"This can't be happening," he muttered, softly banging the back of his head against the stone, "this can't happen. Doors don't disappear, walls don't just appear out of thin air. This is impossible. I know I've got no sense, but this is too absurd even for me. This is totally impossible...Hey, good Sir Gwaine?"

"Yes," Gwaine said, guiding one hand over the cool stone, checking for anything that might be unusual.

"Remember how I said I wasn't going to freak out on you? Am I allowed to change my mind here?" Wynn asked. Gwaine knocked against the wall. It sounded and felt completely solid. He turned to face Wynn.

"I'd rather you didn't," he replied.

"Why not? A small freak out here and there is good for the soul," the boy said. Gwaine moved on to the next wall.

"It might be good for your soul, but it's definitely bad for mine."

"We could freak out together. Scream like little girls. Cry a little. The whole programme."

"No, thanks."

"Are you sure? Is there absolutely nothing I can do to sell you on it? Not even an offer to braid your hair?" Wynn asked.

"Yes, no and no," Gwaine said. Wynn sighed and stood, brushing his clothes off.

"What a bore. Very well, I will abide, but it's your loss, good Sir Gwaine. I make for a great imitation of a little girl and I think your hair is very braidable."

"I'll survive. Check that wall, will you?" Gwaine said, "And why do you keep calling me that?"

"What?" Wynn asked, following his instructions.

"Sir Gwaine. I didn't tell you I was a knight, did I?"

"You're a knight? Are you sure about that?"

"Of course I'm sure about that," Gwaine muttered, "there's no need to be so surprised."

"But aren't knights supposed to be...I don't know, _knightly_? With shining armour and swords and horses and knaves and damsels and all that?"

"So you didn't know?"

"Of course I didn't know. How am I supposed to know when you don't look or act like one?"

"Sorry to disappoint," Gwaine said dryly.

"Now, I didn't say I was disappointed. I don't hold it much with those types and they don't usually hold it much with me. By the way, I never called you 'Sir Gwaine', just 'good Sir Gwaine'."

"Big difference. How is that wall?"

"Absolutely nothing wrong with it, except that it's not supposed to be here," Wynn sighed and gave it an empathetic kick with his foot, "What else am I supposed to call you? I can't just go around addressing people old enough be my father by their first name, can I? Old man Isaac would give me a thrashing, never mind his back. 'Fix your manners, young ganef,' he would say, 'or I'll fix them for you. Nothing wrong with you that a good old thrashing can't fix'. He's very old school."

"I'm not that old," Gwaine said indignantly.

"Don't you know that to people my age, anybody on the wrong side of twenty is a doter on their death bed, generally speaking?" Wynn asked lightly.

"I'll show you a death bed," Gwaine grumbled.

"Now, don't be like that. I can't help my youthful insolence, you know? If we manage to escape judgement at campus sceleratus, it'll wear off in a couple of years, and I, too, will join the league of the infirm. Then it's going to be me sitting in taverns, morbidly musing about the passage of time."

"I'm not infirm!" Gwaine protested. Wynn grinned insolently and shrugged.

"But you do sit around in taverns, morbidly musing about clocks that can't be turned back. What is one supposed to think?"

"That's was about something else entirely. Somebody who's just out of nappies wouldn't understand, of course," Gwaine replied with a light smile. Wynn grimaced.

"I set myself up for that one, didn't I? Want me to go knocking about the- holy!"

"What?" Gwaine asked turning around. Wynn was squinting at a spot in the middle of the room. He took a step forward, one backward and started circling it.

"What?" Gwaine repeated.

"There was...I think I saw something?" Wynn muttered, "just out of the corner of my eye, some movement."

"Might have been me?" Gwaine said, feeling a little nervous.

"You aren't wearing anything white," Wynn said, still staring at the spot. "And I don't think you glow."

"It glowed?" Gwaine asked slowly.

"Kind of, -ish. I don't know...maybe I was mistaken. Makes you see things that aren't really there and lose your mind, this kind of thing."

"Right..." Gwaine said, thinking of the steps and the giggling in the hallway.

"Yeah, one time we were drawing a curtain in this really old building and we kept thinking we were hearing someone humming behind us. Crept me out big time, I was just one big bundle of nerves, jumping at every noise, waiting for some ghost to come gliding around the corner, rattling its chains. It's ridiculous, really. See, now I'm hearing things aga- oh." Wynn broke off and Gwaine knew immediately why. The voice was back, singing the familiar melody.

"_...and starved is the man and he goes to hell..._" it whispered, somewhere close by. Above their heads. Gwaine looked up, but of course there was nothing there but the ceiling.

"_...Rock a bye boy, up on the roof,_

_when the moon climbs, he follows suit..._" Wynn squeaked and swirled around his own axis, searching for the source of the singing.

"_...when the wind blows, it hits his back,_

_and down falls the boy and breaks his neck..._"

"Do you think that's the wind?" Wynn asked, creeping closer to Gwaine, "Last time it was the wind..."

"_...Rock a bye toys, down in the halls,_

_when the walls shift, they hear my song,_

_when the dawn comes, they've become friends,_

_what a shame, then they die and their story ends..._"

"Does that sound like it's the wind?" Gwaine asked hoarsely. At least he now knew that he wasn't going insane, if Wynn could hear it too, the voice had to be real. It was of very little comfort.

"No, but it might still be..." Wynn mumbled, "I didn't mean I wanted to go through 'gliding spectres of the interr'd' _literally_, rot it."

"._..rock a bye man under the window..._" Once again Gwaine felt something cold brush past him. He flinched away. Wynn yelped and jumped, colliding with him.

"Did you feel that?" he whispered breathlessly, "did you hear that? Did you?" Tripling steps ran across the room, but again, nobody was there.

"_...when the walls shift..._"

"But there's nobody there!" Wynn exclaimed, staring at the empty space in front of him. Gwaine's hand clasped around the hilt of the sword, but it didn't make him feel any better. A sword isn't of much help in dealing with ghosts, or so people said.

"_...then they die and their story ends..._" The singing grew louder, the echoing words enveloping Gwaine and his companion until there was nothing but them and the whispers, thrown back and magnified by the walls that closed them in. Gwaine felt as if they were taking up all of the space and all of the air.

"_...the boy...the man...breaks his neck...and he goes to hell..._" The singing broke off and sudden silence fell. Gwaine stood motionless, listening. All he could hear was Wynn's breath at his side, going quick and irregular like his own. Then, a quiet giggle, right between them. Boy and man jumped apart, their eyes glued to the spot where the sound had come from.

"_...Have fun..._" the voice whispered right at Gwaine's ear.

"_...We're going to have so much fun..._" it said from Wynn's direction. The boy stood petrified, not moving even a finger.

"_...You'll see...it's going to be such a fun game..._" Above their heads. Again it giggled. Then it was gone and they were alone with their pounding hearts.

/~/~/

_A Merry Christmas or Hannukah or Bromalia or whatever it is that you guys celebrate. Me, personally, I would very much enjoy a review for a present. Share the spirit!_

_Cheers._

**Tomorrow:** _Gwaine and Wynn have to exercise mentally a lot to solve several riddles. Also, Gwaine begins to work on a riddle of his own and comes to a very unsettling conclusion._


	12. Wait, Rumpelstiltskin's Not Your Name?

_Stop! This is a Christmas-special-double-instalment! If you haven't read 'Phantom Voices of the World Below' yet, which I posted yesterday, please go to the previous chapter. Otherwise: Enjoy!_

**Chapter 11:**

**Wait, Rumpelstiltskin's Not Your Name?**

**Riddle Me That**

"Sorry I got you into this," Gwaine muttered, shifting position against the wall, "you wouldn't be here if you hadn't come back for me."

"No," Wynn agreed, "No, I probably wouldn't." He had pulled off his jacket and was currently employed in cutting out pieces of the lining. At first Gwaine had wondered what he was doing, now he saw that Wynn was constructing a sling for his arm. Gwaine had no idea how much time had passed since they'd been locked in by the walls – it had been a while – and he wasn't sure how long they had been wandering around before that, but he knew it was long enough that all traces of shock would have vanished by now. Wynn knew it too, Gwaine had caught him poking and prodding his arm every once in a while with a grim expression. He stopped every time he noticed Gwaine looking and started making an argument for the infinite amount of a certain kind of numbers, which seemed to contradict itself, which_ he_ said was the point. Gwaine, personally, thought that the point was to make his head hurt.

Wynn pulled is jacket back on, draped the sling around his neck and placed his arm in it. He stood and walked a couple of paces, doing a jump or a side-step every now and then.

"Splendid. Now it's not dangling around, much better. To answer your question, no. No, I probably wouldn't be in here if it weren't for you."

"Yes, sorry about that," Gwaine said.

"You should be. You have no idea on what kind of entirely different but equally unseemly troubles of my own I'm missing out here," Wynn continued, "They generally follow me around like lost puppies and they're so cute, I can't resist picking them up. I've got a soft spot, I am told. I'm sorry, too, by the way, and all that."

"What are you sorry for?" Gwaine asked.

"Well, for lots of things. The human condition is one, the invention of Mondays, another. I hate Mondays, they're ghastly things."

"You're sorry for Mondays," Gwaine repeated slowly.

"And the human condition, don't forget that. And I'm the one who got you caught with my shouting, aren't I? Very unprofessional behaviour, I should have known better, in all earnestness. I have no idea what got into me," Wynn said.

"I stepped on you and there was something about your nose," said Gwaine. Wynn laughed.

"People have done much worse than step on me and I didn't make such an ungodly racket. No, that's on me. 'Confiteor tibi frater quia peccavi nimis verbo et opere, mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa'. I would beat my chest, too, but I always found that a very ridiculous practice. Reminds me of an ape."

"Are you ever serious?" Gwaine asked with a light grin. Wynn shrunk back, mockingly aghast.

"Serious! Never! Why would I ever want to be such an infernally depressing thing? The world is enough of a serious place, no need for me to add to it." He paused and pulled a deck of playing cards out of his pocket.

"Now, how about instead of playing the blame-game, we play something more uplifting? We might have to sit around here, but we don't have to be bored and depressed." He started expertly cutting and shuffling the deck between the fingers of one hand and Gwaine watched him, marginally impressed.

"Nimbleness is a key requirement in acquisitions," Wynn said, placing five even stacks of cards on the ground, "Nimble mind, nimble fingers and lots of perseverance. Magic tricks make for great training. Also, cheating at cards will always make you a quick coin when you're broke. Take a card, any card, remember which one it is and put it back on top of one of these stacks." Gwaine gave him a look, sighed and did as instructed. It wasn't like they had anything better to do. He pulled a card from the far right stack and looked at it. It was the Queen of Hearts. He put it back on the stack and watched Wynn reassemble the deck and cut it once more.

"You know how to shuffle?" the boy asked, offering the deck to him.

"You want me to do it?" Gwaine asked surprised.

"Of course. You want to make sure I'm not counting the cards or anything, right?" Wynn replied, grinning. Gwaine, who had expected him to do just that, took the deck, shuffled several times and gave it back to Wynn, who cut it into five parts again and replaced them on the ground. He pulled the top card from the middle stack and showed it to Gwaine. King of Hearts.

"This your card?"

"No, it isn't," Gwaine said. Wynn frowned and looked at it.

"I say!" he exclaimed, "You cheated! You never put the card back, did you? That isn't very nice of you, good Sir Gwaine."

"I didn't cheat," Gwaine said dryly, "don't blame me if your little trick doesn't work."

"You didn't cheat, you say?" Wynn asked indignantly, "Then how do you explain this, huh?" He reached for Gwaine's right jacket-pocket and pulled out a card, holding it up demonstratively with lifted eyebrows. It was the Queen of Hearts. Gwaine laughed.

"My, I must have cheated without noticing," he said, "How did you do that?"

"Belief. Converse, Redirect, Engage, Defy, Obscure. Spells out 'credo'. That's Latin for-"

"Belief, I know," Gwaine said, rolling his eyes, "But how exactly did you do it?"

"Why, good Sir Gwaine, one never reveals their trade-secrets, it gets you into trouble with the guild – if there were such a thing. But I'll give you a tip. Remember how often the deck changed hands? Was that really necessary?" Gwaine blinked, thought about it and groaned.

"You took the card when you re-stacked the deck, didn't you?" he asked.

"Did I? Maybe I have real magical powers, who knows," Wynn said with a shrug and started shuffling the cards once more.

"You shouldn't say such things in this country," Gwaine said, watching the cards glide through his fingers with such fluidity that it really looked like magic. "It's dangerous. People might not listen any further than the word 'magic'."

"Who's going to hear me in here?" Wynn asked, "Unless you are going to strike me down on the spot..." He shot Gwaine a look and frowned.

"Which, considering you work for Camelot's Law Incarnate, I guess, is not such an absurd idea. You look like a nice person, I'm surprised you would do such a thing, work for the dark side."

"The dark side," Gwaine remarked, "Some people would say it's your side that's dark."

"Matter of perspective, I should say. At least people on my side don't commit what can only be classified as genocide. Crime, yes, murder, yes, but not genocide. Not that it makes us much better, we just lack the right means...Now, this is a bit of an iffy trick...you're supposed to do it with a waterfall, but as I have only one hand, I'll try to make it work with a wave fan. While I fan them, memorise one card." The deck in his hands started fanning out, the cards following the first one rapidly disappearing behind it, so that at no point in time Gwaine could see more than the faces of a couple of cards. Gwaine watched them and picked one that instantly disappeared behind the others.

"It's complicated," Gwaine said when Wynn had closed the deck again and resumed cutting and shuffling. "The king has his reasons, I guess, but I didn't become a knight for him, to be honest," he continued. Wynn was right, it wasn't like anybody would hear him.

"There's a friend I wanted to help out and the prince is a good man." The boy shot him a glance and laughed.

"One of these days you're going to have to let me borrow that lantern of yours, it's a wondrous world it shows you." Gwaine searched the dim memory of his book-knowledge for the reference. After his father had been killed in the war and their family had fallen on hard times, the world had suddenly been full of things they could no longer afford. His mother had tried to keep his education going for as long as she could, but after two years they had had to sell his fathers library to pay for the maintenance of the house and the clothes on their backs.

"You don't believe in good people?" he asked, when he finally remembered. Wynn fanned out ten cards.

"I only believe in what I have seen with my own eyes. Is your card among these?" Gwaine checked and nodded. Wynn shuffled, fanned out again, seven cards this time.

"But I don't exclude the possibility completely. I have never met a truly good person myself – is it among these? Good – but then again, induction isn't to be taken as conclusive proof." The cards fanned out again, five this time, Gwaine checked and nodded. Wynn shuffled.

"And hope dies last. That's probably why he kept walking those streets day after day...is it still there?" Gwaine checked the last three remaining cards and nodded again. Wynn closed the fan and shuffled a last time, then he drew one card and held it up.

"It's this one."

"Belief again?" Gwaine asked. Wynn shook his head.

"No, this time it's paying attention and a little bit of luck. It works only two out of three times on average. It's all about seeing- dear lord!"

"What?" Gwaine asked, when the cards slipped Wynn's fingers and fluttered to the ground.

"Good Sir, we are oafs. Fools. Idiots. Breeders, complete breeders...look around you!" Gwaine frowned and looked.

"I can't see anything but walls," he said.

"Exactly!" Wynn exclaimed, "but you _can_ see! We're completely locked in, there's no windows, no torches, no source of light, yet we can see!" He jumped up and started pacing up and down in front of Gwaine, visibly agitated. "I was sitting around here, demonstrating it the whole time, talking about it the whole time and I didn't even think of it! I only believe in what I can _see_! It's all a trick of perception! Body and mind, like marriage, rot it!"

"That again?" Gwaine asked.

"Of course that again! Left is right and right is left and it's all true if only I believe it!" Gwaine raised his eyebrows.

"Wynn, if you don't start talking like a sane person any time soon..." he said. Wynn waved his hand at him dismissively and continued muttering under his breath until, finally;-

"How much do you know about magic? The genuine article, I mean, not my little party tricks?"

"As much as anybody in Camelot who is not insane, I guess," Gwaine said, wondering what had gotten into the boy. He was now positively hopping from one foot to the other. "It's not exactly the kind of thing you get into around here if you want to keep your head on your shoulders, I told you before."

"And 'know thy enemy' is not one of the things you get into around here either?" Wynn asked, ceasing his hopping for a brief moment and throwing Gwaine a look. "The epitome of sanity itself, that."

"Whatever," Gwaine said grumpily, knowing that Wynn was pointing out a very apparent flaw in Uther's logic, "what are you getting at?"

"Illusions! Real ones I mean...though that is an oxymoron, isn't it? What's a real- no never mind, never mind. Well, you see, I'm not from Camelot, obviously, and in many countries these days, though there are formal laws against magic, nobody really bothers to enforce them. Take Mercia, for example, every filthy rich guy who can afford it has his own pet sorcerer. I hear even the king...well, never mind that. Same thing goes for Escetia and in acquisitions, if you don't want to run into some very ugly protective spell, you might want to read up on the basics. A friend of mine..." Wynn paused and grimaced, "what am I saying? Nobody falls for the 'a friend of mine' line any more. I made the mistake of not doing the hang up properly once and what should have been a porphy curtain turned into stag like you wouldn't believe. If it hadn't been for Ceri, we'd all have been forcefully retired from the tables, so to speak, she-"

"Wynn, is there any point to this?" Gwaine asked impatiently.

"Yes, yes, of course there is. Sorry, I tend to do that. The less I have to say, the more I talk, and the more serious the situation, the less sense I make, as Ceri never gets tired of pointing out. And then she threatens to strangle me if I don't get to the point the very instant. Want to get that out of the way before I go on?"

"No...get to the point any way," Gwaine groaned, feeling very sympathetic towards that Ceri-character.

"Your wish is my command. So, illusions. One of the basic laws in magic is that you can't create something form nothing, there's a whole system of balances and stuff and unless you want to end up spending a lot of time on it and risk unhinging reality or erasing yourself from existence, you better keep them in mind. What you can do, however, is make somebody believe they're seeing something that isn't really there."

"But these walls are really here," Gwaine said, feeling his patience run out and knocking against the wall with the back of his hand, "we established that already. This isn't just an illusion."

"Yes, it feels that way, doesn't it? It's quite fascinating," Wynn said, guiding his hand over the stone in a circular motion. Gwaine took a deep breath and waited for him to continue.

"Essentially, there's two kinds of illusions. The one you're thinking of here is what is called a 'mirage'. Light bent and woven together with magic to create the image of something that isn't really there. It's an illusion anybody who is around at the time can see, as it is a spell that affects the state of the physical world, inasmuch as one calls light physical. The second kind is called a 'paracosmos' and it affects perception itself..but of course it won't work unless you actually think that you're perceiving something, and the more senses you trick, the more stable it gets, that's why there's light in here! Remember what I said about the mind-body relationship?" Wynn was beginning to sound like he had swallowed a book on the matter and as much as it was a relief to know that he was very familiar with the subject-matter, it was also infuriating to be talked down to by someone his age. Gwaine shook his head. It was his frustrations doing his thinking here, that, and he was tired.

"Mind-body relationship...that it's like marriage...and that the mind rules the body...something about how what is in your mind must be the truth..." Gwaine replied, collecting his memories of earlier conversations. This stuff really made his head spin. This and his empty stomach.

"Exactly. If we assume that the mind is the superior force in the relationship, then everything the mind is convinced is real, really convinced, as I am convinced that you are sitting here in front of me..."

"The body will react to as if it were real?" Gwaine asked, as he understood what Wynn was taking so long to get at.

"Just so, just so," Wynn said, nodding as if he were a schoolmaster explaining the concept of 'one and one equals two' to his student.

"So you're saying that with this paranormal-"

"Paracosmic," Wynn interjected quickly, "It's called that way because-"

"Whatever," Gwaine cut him off sharply, not being in the mood for any more lengthy explanations, "you're saying that with this kind of illusion, somebody is tricking our mind into believing that there are walls all around us and therefore, we not only see walls, but feel walls as well?" Wynn nodded.

"So, if we can convince ourselves that there are no walls here, we can leave?"

"Yes, that should do the trick, but we won't be able to do that," Wynn said, completely unconcerned, as if he was merely examining some problem in a book without any practical import, "As long as the spell is active, our minds will know this for the truth as much as I know that my left isn't really my right and you know that I'm holding up four fingers here, not five," Wynn briefly held up four fingers and continued; "You'd have more luck convincing yourself that you can permeate through concrete walls than that they aren't real."

"Wonderful," Gwaine said through gritted teeth. He had briefly allowed hope to flare up and now that it was dashed to bits he felt doubly betrayed, frustrated and desperate, like one sees the room darkest right after a candle has been extinguished and the eyes haven't yet grown accustomed to the absence of light.

"So apart from a long but absolutely useless lesson on magical theory, we're exactly where we were before."

"You're so defeatist, good Sir Gwaine," Wynn said calmly, "Old man Isaac would threaten you with a thrashing right now. He can't stand defeatist attitudes. He says despair is a swamp and allowing yourself to give in to it is like following a fen fire mindlessly. It'll lead you right to your death."

"I don't care what five of your old men say," Gwaine snapped, "I've had it with you distributing life-wisdoms like they were sweets."

"I don't. Sweets rot your teeth, my mother used to say, and they won't fill you up for long. This is a very healthy broth I'm cooking up here and it'll be the base for a good soup. 'Wherefore the impatient, while they will not suffer ills, effect not a deliverance from ills, but only the suffering of heavier ills', mind that. It's also supposed to have been written by Augustine, though there are discrep-" He didn't get any further. Gwaine's patience had finally run out. He was sick of hearing completely inconsequential trivia.

"I don't know where you stuffed your head with all that theoretical nonsense and considering our situation, it is at the very bottom of my agenda to find out, but unless you have something useful to say, shut up, will you?"

"Ouch," Wynn said quietly. He sounded immensely hurt, but like that kid squashing the bug with morbid fascination, Gwaine went on.

"You talk like everything is just one big intellectual puzzle for you to solve. Reality is just a matter of perception? I'll tell you something about reality that I know because I'm a doter and have multitudes of your life-experience. There's a nerv-"

Wynn gave a choked sound and stood abruptly. With a couple of steps he crossed the room that had been created by the walls closing them in, until he was standing in the farthest corner from Gwaine, his back turned, his forehead pressed against the cold stone.

Gwaine closed his eyes and banged the back of his head against the wall, angry at himself. That had been more than uncalled for. How was making Wynn feel bad going to help him? But he felt helpless physically already, the kid's constant demonstrations of knowledge made him feel incapacitated mentally as well and his perpetual calm made him feel inadequate. It was cruel and spiteful, but he wanted the kid to need him to be the adult, so that he didn't feel completely useless.

"I think a stupor has seized upon me," Wynn muttered, "all the symptoms of lethargy, the usual sickness of deluded minds. For a while I have forgotten myself, but I will easily recover my memory if only I recognize her. Wipe my eyes that are clouded with a mist of mortal things?" Wynn cleared his throat, turned around and returned to his former seat.

"I was saying, the paracosmic illusion will remain reality for us, right?" he asked, continuing the conversation from before as if nothing had happened. Gwaine stared at him.

"What was that about, just now?" he asked. Wynn shrugged and collected the cards that were scattered on the ground.

"Breaking up the clouds of melancholy with the help of an old trusted friend," he replied. He laughed when he looked at Gwaine's blank expression.

"You think I'm barking boots, don't you?"

"No..." Gwaine said slowly. Actually, he was really beginning to wonder whether the boy was somehow disturbed. Just now, when he had spoken all that confused nonsense, he had acted as if he was actually talking to somebody standing opposite him.

"Sure you do, written all over your face. There's a book written by a man, imprisoned and waiting for execution. Sick in mind and body, he finally finds solace in conversation with his old friend Philosophy. It's quite famous and I always found it a very successful approach to coping with life."

"Purest form of escapism," Gwaine said quietly, finally understanding what Wynn's flights into seemingly random intellectual exercises were all about. He was trying to keep a level head by distracting himself with thoughts on subjects that required the most focus.

"Now, sorry I got off track back there again, I got carried away by the pursuit of truth and forgot the vita activa, so to speak. The point I took so long to make that I wore out your patience is, of course, that to every spell there is some kind of counter-spell, that's just how it works. We just have to find it and we should be able to dispel the illusion. Or parts of it, at least. These things usually come in many layers."

"Great, I'll just pull out my spell-book and we can get to it," Gwaine said. If the boy needed to pretend that Gwaine hadn't said what he had said, he was going to take care to keep that can of worms closed. Wynn laughed again.

"All that we need to figure out the release, we have right in our heads. Paracosmic illusions have to be anchored in an already existing image or thought. Meaning that the release will be-"

"A word or phrase?" Gwaine asked, thinking quickly. Wynn nodded.

"That's how it works, yes. Can't be too long either, otherwise it'll be unstable because there's too many associations connected to it."

"Still, do you have any idea how many words there are in the English language?" Gwaine asked. Wynn pursed his lips and for a second Gwaine almost expected him to come up with a precise count. It seemed like the kind of thing he would know.

"No, I'm drawing a blank here. A lot, that's for sure, far too many to try them all. Luckily, we can narrow it down some."

"Right," Gwaine said, "it wouldn't be anything we'd randomly use in conversation, things like that?"

"Yes, exactly like that. Also, we're under the same spell, so-"

"So we both know the release," Gwaine went on, "Then, does the caster have to know it too?"

"I say! This is going beautifully! Very sharp, good Sir Gwaine. Now we just have to figure out what all of us might associate with something like this, and we'll have narrowed it down considerably."

"All right," Gwaine said, "so, what do we know about the caster?"

"Nothing," Wynn said, suddenly bleak. Gwaine shook his head.

"Who's defeatist now? We know plenty. These paracosmic illusions, they're created in the mind of the person who casts the spell, right?"

"Yes, they are."

"Then everything that has happened to us ever since we came here is one big roadmap to the mind of the person who is doing this. We just have to read it," Gwaine said. Wynn looked at him and suddenly grinned.

"Good Sir Gwaine, you're brilliant. Of course, we know plenty, or we should, if we just put our heads together. Two smart guys like us, it'll be a child's play." Gwaine lifted an eyebrow. 'Child's play' was maybe a bit too much of an optimistic take on the problem, but it wasn't impossible.

"All right, so what do we know?" Wynn asked, collecting his scattered cards off the ground and shuffling absent-mindedly.

"Let's see," Gwaine said, "Goatee And Company mentioned having a raven back in the tavern, stands to reason that it's the same person. Since this seems to be their base of operations and everything."

"Yeah, that sounds like a sound conclusion. So it's somebody who's working with them."

"A woman," Gwaine said, "it's a woman."

"How do you figure?" Wynn asked.

"Well, they kept talking about some 'her' that they seemed to be scared of. Humpty Dumpty and Shi- I mean, Arthog, didn't seem like the type of guys who would be scared of a woman, unless-"

"Unless she was very powerful. No woman could physically best them, they were giants, so it must be mentally. Not very difficult, I should say, they also had the brains of a bird, but yeah, magic would be something they'd be powerless against."

"Also, Cloak told Goatee that Arthur's sorcerer was caught up in her web and Goatee seemed very pleased about that. I don't think they meant a literal web, do you?"

"No, and illusions, or spells in general even, are very much like a web. Say," Wynn looked up from his cards, "how does that work in any case? Camelot's feeder, of all things, being friends with a raven? Is that some kind of rebellious acting out against his father or something?"

"Urgh," Gwaine said, who really didn't have an answer to that. He thought it extremely unlikely that Arthur was aware of Merlin's magic. Arthur wasn't afraid to confront his father when he disagreed with his decisions, but he'd grown up being indoctrinated about the great corruptive evils of all sorcery and Morgana had basically confirmed everything in the most cruel and memorable way. Telling Arthur that he had magic would be stupidity on a scale not even Merlin was capable of – or at least Gwaine hoped so.

"I don't know, it's the first time I've heard of it," he admitted.

"Is it now," Wynn said, looking at him pensively, "but you know who it is, don't you?"

"I might. Why do you ask?"

"Because it would explain why you looked so shocked when you were sucking Monksfield and his friends. Both friends of yours, feeder and raven, right?"

"Maybe. What's it to you?" Gwaine asked, suddenly feeling uncomfortable with the turn this conversation had taken.

"Absolutely nothing," Wynn said with a shrug, "I'm just wondering what kind of person he is. I've never met a real life feeder. It sounded like you knew him well, just then when you were praising him for being a good man."

"I wasn't praising," Gwaine muttered, "Merely stating the facts. I think we're getting off track here again. As I was saying, Goatee was notably pleased when he heard that Arthur's sorcerer was caught up in her web, so it's likely she's a sorceress herself."

"Uh-huh," Wynn made, the cards gliding rapidly through his fingers, "yeah...likely...what else do we know?"

"She likes to play games," Gwaine said slowly, "remember, they were talking about how they didn't want to be her toys?"

"Yes...toys..." Wynn repeated, "just a moment here, I think I might be thinking something...toys...Me!"

"What?" Gwaine asked, stunned.

"Me! I mean, not me, as in _me_, but me – as in a kid. You keep telling me how I'm a kid."

"Only because you keep telling me how I'm a doter," Gwaine grinned. Wynn flashed him a smile and shrugged.

"Never mind that now. Think about it, this is like one big game, isn't it? Things a kid would enjoy. Nursery-rhymes, pulling pranks..._childish_ pranks, you said so yourself when you thought it was me."

"You're saying a child is doing all this?" Gwaine asked dubiously. Wynn nodded.

"Yes, that's exactly what I'm saying. A little girl. The voice, it sounded like a little girl, didn't it? And the figure I saw was small, like a child."

"I don't know," Gwaine replied, "It's a bit of a stretch, isn't it?"

"Of course it's a stretch, but so is everything else. Let's accept it as a working hypothesis, why don't we?"

"Fine, let's do that," Gwaine said.

"So, what do little girls enjoy? What would they build on to create an illusion?"

"Something that they like to think about...something that would help them create a fantasy world..." Gwaine said, thinking aloud. Wynn's brow was furrowed in concentration. Gwaine watched his fingers, still shuffling the cards. He was right, Gwaine had assumed it was the boy pulling the prank on him, because he was a kid. So maybe their way of thinking wasn't all that different, even if the kid was a bit too old to be enjoying this kind of thing and most definitely not female. What did Wynn do...the purest form of escapism...in other words, retreating in your own head, your world...

"Stories!" he exclaimed suddenly, "Little girls like stories, right? Fairy tales, that kind of thing?" Wynn looked up.

"Oh! Yes, of course! When Ceri was little, she would do that. She always forced me to act them out, too. I had to be the damsel and she was the knight saving me," he added with a grimace. Gwaine laughed. Wynn had a face as if the memory was pulling one of his teeth.

"You keep mentioning her. Is she your sister?" he asked. It sounded like something a sister would do and a brother would have to put up with.

"No, but we are something like family. Let's see...Ceri's favourite stories were about the Trojan War, especially that dratted play by Euripides, can't stand the thing, too many women...and Beowulf, I guess and she was very much into the epics about the gods. You know, how they all killed their children and their nephews and married their fathers and brothers and cheated on them with their mothers and what not..."

"Yes, how about we think of something that a girl would _usually_ enjoy?" Gwaine asked. He got the feeling that 'Ceri' had very special tastes. Wynn pursed his lips and nodded.

"It was my fault in the first place, I kept telling them to her, not knowing what was lying in store for me...You know, I've been devouring books ever since I knew what letters are, but that's not how it usually goes, is it? Most children hear re-tellings of stories, they don't read them for themselves, right?"

"Right," Gwaine said, "and every person tells the details of a story differently. So we should focus on the things a lot of stories would share, central ideas. That's what you mean?"

"Yeah, just that. Let's forget anything specific and go for the general associations," Wynn suggested. Both of them started throwing ideas back and forth. Every time they both thought that their situation reminded them of something, they would dwell in the general area for a while and try out all words that came to mind. Unfortunately, none of it worked. Mazes, monsters dwelling in the dark, ghost-stories, bandits and robbers, all of it proved to be fruitless. After a while – it must have been at least an hour, though there was really no way to tell, they both fell quiet, trying to stir up more ideas. Gwaine shook his head. He felt like a squeezed lemon.

"I got it, I think," Wynn said, "I said it, a while ago, how this is campus sceleratus and how I didn't literally want to go through the spirits of the interred. We're..interred, right?"

"Right," Gwaine said.

"Like the dead?"

"Thank you, cheery image," Gwaine said dryly.

"Never mind that now. Where do the dead dwell?"

"The Underworld?"

"All right. Good. Let's see...Cerberus? No, Hades? Styx? Erebus? Tartarus? No...rot it. Lord Ruler's rotten-"

"Wynn," Gwaine said suddenly, "You were right, we're oafs. Who's that god you keep invoking when you curse?"

"Lhooka?" Wynn asked, blinking, "He's an old trickster deity. It's mostly a figure of speech nowadays, nobody prays to him any more except for-"

"The shady element, yes, I know who he is."

"Then why do you ask?"

"Well, we're talking about magic here, right?" Wynn frowned.

"What are you getting...oh. Oh, of course. Chances are that around here, magic equals Old Religion, especially if our raven is a little girl who doesn't go around reading up on other magical systems and cultures."

"Exactly. So maybe we should focus on local traditions instead. In the Old Religion, the Otherworld is called-"

"Annwn," Wynn said breathlessly. Both of them stared at the wall, but again nothing happened. Gwaine groaned. He'd been absolutely positive that he was right about this. He slammed his fist against the wall and cursed.

"Rot it, there's just too much to go through," Wynn said, sounding miserable, "I mean, we could spent years trying. We don't even know we're right about who's doing this. It's absurd in the first place that a child could be doing this, it's way too sophisticated. It might just as well be some stupid old man with a beard and a pointy hat or-"

"Maybe, but I don't think so," Gwaine interrupted him, staring at the place where his fist had hit the wall, "Look!" He pointed at the wall. Etched into the stone were the outlines of a gate, intricate patterns glowing lightly on the wings. Wynn gave a hiss and stepped closer.

"Lhooka's Dice! And it's still forming, look at it!" The patterns and outlines were glowing more intense by the minute, at first dark red, then orange, bright yellow- Gwaine yelped and retracted his hand from the wall. It was scalding hot. The air started vibrating and the stones seemed to melt into each other behind it, the outlines of the gate becoming more pronounced, gaining structure, gaining dimension. A humming sound filled the room, accompanied by what sounded like a gigantic hammer striking down on metal, again and again, each strike followed by a burst of sparks from the wall. Somewhere in the distance, a dog howled, another one answered him. The floor shook, dust and small stones came down from the ceiling, a spidery web of cracks shot away from the appearing gate. The glow was now a blinding white light, Gwaine could feel the heat on his face. He took a couple of steps back, almost stumbling over Wynn behind him. He turned away, the bright light burning in his eyes. A hissing sound, like hot metal being doused with water, a last flash of light- and it all stopped.

Gwaine turned around and stared at the giant iron-cast gate in front of his eyes.

"Bloody hell," he muttered, stepping closer and placing his hand on one of the wings. It was still warm, though not as scalding as it had been before.

"Heard those dogs? I bet those were Cwn Annwn. Hell-hounds, the Christians call them, though that's a misconception, Annwn is nothing like hell..." Wynn whispered, his voice catching. Gwaine ignored him, tracing the patterns on the gate with one finger. Just like the walls before it, it felt completely real and, who knew, maybe this time it was.

"Try opening it," Wynn urged, pointing at the knobs in form of tree-branches. Gwaine's hand glided towards one of them, paused for an instant of hesitation, and closed around it. He pulled. Then he pushed. The gate didn't budge. He looked at Wynn, who looked back at him, profound disappointment all over his face.

"It's not opening," he said, "is it?" Gwaine shook his head.

"But this is definitely progress," he replied, "we know for certain that we're on the right track. I'll be damned, your nonsense was actually useful for once."

"Yeah, splendid. We've got a closed iron gate. Not much better than walls," Wynn muttered, giving the gate a moody kick. He had obviously put more of his disappointment behind it than intended, because he yelped and started hopping backwards on one leg, rubbing his foot. He lost his balance, landed on his backside and remained sitting there, covering the entire spectre of Busk curses. Gwaine chuckled.

"Nothing to laugh about!" Wynn snapped, "It hurts, rot it!" Gwaine stopped laughing, but he couldn't completely get rid of his grin.

"Yes, so I gathered," he said.

"Gathered, lice of lies, I sure hope they bite you in your sleep," Wynn muttered peevishly. Gwaine suppressed another chuckle and turned back to the gate.

"You said these things come in layers?" he asked.

"Yeah, usually. It's dashed next to impossible to tie something like this to one single thought," Wynn replied, still sounding very put out.

"I guess we have to figure out a second release then," Gwaine said, "it might take a while, but we are definitely on to something. Let's not lose our heads now, we're not in that much of a hurry, are we?"

Of course, as soon as those words had left his mouth, their environment begged to differ. There was a rumbling sound, the room shook and suddenly thick fountains of water broke through several places in the walls and the ceiling. Wynn yelped when he was hit by one of them and doused from head to toe. Rubble crumbled from the ceiling, rocks shot through the room as the walls cracked and moaned under the water-pressure. One of them grazed Gwaine's cheek, another one barely failed to take off his ear, and not for lack of trying.

"You just had to go and jinx it, did you?" Wynn yelled, "The room is filling up! We've got to get that gate open, this instant, or we're going to Annwn for real!"

"I know!" Gwaine snapped when another rock hit the back of his hand, leaving a big gash in it. He looked around the room feverishly. The enclosed space, a 'tomb', had pointed towards the dead, towards Annwn. There had to be something else, something that would give them a hint in the right direction. His glance fell upon a couple of words etched into the arch of the gate.

"Wynn! You know rune poems? You read runes too, right?" he asked.

"Yes, of course, most books on magic-"

"Read that!" Gwaine interrupted him and pointed at the writing. Wynn squinted at it and frowned.

"_Now_ would be good," Gwaine said impatiently, watching the water rise higher and higher by the second. Now it was already the hight of his thighs.

"Yes, yes, give me a moment, it's in the old language, I need to translate...this is much easier with quill and paper...All right, I got it. It says:

'_I am the one who never falls,_

_protector to the master of these halls _

_my shield tells of my endless fame,_

_to end the struggle, speak my name;_

_but death to those who take too long,_

_or those who try and guess it wrong'_."

"Tell me you didn't waste time trying to make it rhyme," Gwaine muttered, "What's that supposed to mean?"

"I didn't, I think it was meant to be translated, it doesn't rhyme in the original...never mind. I think we're supposed to figure out what – or who – the poem is about and I think we get only one try."

"Great, a riddle. I hate riddles," Gwaine groaned. The water had risen to his hip and Wynn was immersed in it to the elbows. "Any suggestions?"

"I...I don't know," Wynn said hesitantly.

"Well, I'll be damned. I thought you knew everything," Gwaine said sardonically, "Come on, you've got to have some idea?"

"That precisely the problem! There's literally dozens of stories where solving a riddle will get you something!" Wynn snapped, "It's the oldest plot in the book! In the myths from up north, for example, the god Od-"

"Don't say it! No names until we are sure we're right," Gwaine interjected before he could get anything further out, "not even our own. Remember,_ one_ try?" Wynn's eyes widened and he clapped a hand over his mouth.

"Do you think it's one try _each?"_ he asked hopefully. Gwaine lifted an eyebrow.

"Right. Of course not...Rot it...it's still too many..." Gwaine clicked his tongue and turned to face the gate. That's what you got for reading too much. A head stuffed with so much knowledge, you couldn't see the forest for the trees.

"Come on, what's your name," Wynn mumbled, "what's the name? Focus..." Gwaine looked at him pensively, his brow furrowed in concentration. He liked to tell people the meaning of their names...'protector to the master of these halls'...in other words, the one working the illusion, a sorcerer...

He looked back at the gate and the intricate carvings, the door-knob, something stirring in his mind. Just now he had thought something...The water now reached to Wynn's shoulders, soon the small boy wouldn't be able to stand on his feet any longer.

"'My shield speaks of my endless fame...I know this...I know it," Gwaine muttered under his breath, "to end the struggle...what did I think? Not seeing the forest for- oh! But of course! I know it! I know the name!" Wynn's head shot around, he opened his mouth and swallowed water. He coughed and tried again.

"Rot! You do? Are you sure?"

"I'll know in a second," Gwaine replied, half-swimming, half-wading towards the gate. He dove under water and examined the submerged knobs again. Yes, this was proof, or as close to proof they were going to get. He emerged and sucked in air.

"Bran!" he yelled hoarsely, "Your name is Bran!" Thunder filled the air around him and for an instant of shock, he thought he had gotten it wrong and they were going to die. But then there was a piercing screech and slowly, slowly, the gate opened. Water flowed through it, eager to fill out the new space. Gwaine was swept up in the current, pushed through the gate and thrust against a wall. A second later, the gate slammed shut behind him. The water gurgled softly, a couple of bubbles rose to the surface and the water started draining away. Soon all that was left were small puddles.

Gwaine sat up, pushing wet hair out of his face and scanning the room for Wynn. He found him lying on the ground to his right.

"You all right?" Gwaine asked. The boy waved his hand and raised his head.

"Fine. How did you figure _that_ out?" he asked.

"Bran means raven, doesn't it?" Gwaine replied, "and the 'master of these halls' is a sorcerer. In other words, a raven."

"That's_ it_?" Wynn yelped, bolting up and staring at Gwaine, "You risked our lives on_ that_?"

"I was right, wasn't I? And we were seriously running out of time," Gwaine replied dryly.

"But 'raven'? Taking aside the fact that there's _dozens_ of names that have 'raven' in them...Are you insane? Lord Ruler of Mischief, stop playing pranks on me!"

"No, I had more to go on. I'm surprised you still don't see it."

"Yeah, sorry, I'm still trying to get around the fact that Lhooka thought it was funny to stick me with a barking shoemaker," Wynn grumbled, "that's what you get for being a devout follower. I'm not burning any incense any time soon. You hear that? No incense or sparklies for you!" He shook his fist at the ceiling. Gwaine chuckled at his earnest indignation.

"Do you think that's smart? Being cross with a god?" he asked.

"My god to be cross with," Wynn muttered, "what else did you have?"

"Not seeing the forest for the trees," Gwaine replied with a grin.

"_What_ now?" Wynn asked.

"The pattern on the door, it was a forest, if you looked at it carefully. And the door-knobs were branches. Alder-branches, to be precise. Guess a name and the struggle ends. Get it now?"

"Dear me!" Wynn exclaimed, clapping his hand against his forehead, "But of course, the 'Battle of Trees'! Gwydion guesses the name of Bran, who can not be defeated by anyone from the alder-branches on his shield and the battle ends. We were in Annwn, the gate was the shield, 'I am the one that never falls', that's Bran! It's genius, you're a _genius_!"

"I don't know about that, but I think you might want to reconsider on the incense and sparklies issue," Gwaine laughed.

"I will. My next glitter goes to the Lord Ruler, all of it. Rot it, what a breeder I am."

"It was a team-effort," Gwaine said, "you laid all the groundwork. I would never have figured out what was going on around here or how to break through the illusion if it wasn't for you. I wouldn't have been able to read the inscription, either. How does that work, in any case? I thought I had to know everything?"

"No, not everything, just the release, which was 'Bran'. Well, if you insist that I'm not a complete oaf, I will happily accept. I did put in some effort, after all, though I panicked the bullseye at the crucial moment," Wynn replied, wringing out his sodden clothes with one hand. It didn't make much of a difference, like Gwaine he was dripping and shivering in the cool air. He pulled off his boots and emptied them out. A swill of water hit the floor and Wynn grimaced.

Gwaine looked around while he also tried to get as much water out of his clothes as possible. They were in a very small circular chamber, the bottom of a tower it seemed. A narrow staircase led upwards in spirals, lighted by candles on the walls. Along the walls, askew shelves held jars and books.

"Where do you think that leads to?" Wynn asked, pointing at the staircase. Gwaine looked up. The spirals seemed to go on forever, he could see no ceiling.

"I have no idea, but it would seem that'sthe only way we can go," he replied.

"Yeah, seems like it," Wynn said, "Unless we want to stay here. At least we'd have something to do, I think I see a volume of Euclid's 'Elements' over there, if we're lucky I can show you what I was talking about earlier with the proof. It's really fascinating and he explains it much better than I did." Gwaine rolled his eyes.

"If ever there was an incentive to move it along," he muttered. Wynn chuckled quietly and scrambled up with a bit of a struggle.

"Very well then. The infinite stairs instead of infinite numbers it is. But we could at least have a quick peak at the concept of infinity, what do you-" Gwaine grabbed Wynn, turned him around so that he faced the stairs and gave him a light shove towards them. The boy protested mildly, but obliged. He took the first steps and stopped to look at the title of a book on a shelve. Gwaine gave him another light push. Wynn went on with a disdainful sniff and a grumpy comment on 'people who are always focused on their physical existence'. Gwaine raised an eyebrow and wondered what other kind of people there could be – according to his experience, his continued physical existence was a condition for any other form of existence he might have.

They climbed on in silence. The staircase had looked infinite from below, now that he was struggling to take one step after the next, it felt even more so. Whether he glanced up or down, Gwaine could see no end to it. Above continued the spirals, below he saw darkness where the ground should have been. Gwaine found himself leaning towards the wall, afraid of miss-stepping and falling off the narrow stairs.

"So, do you think we're still inside the illusion?" Gwaine asked when they had gone on for so long, he had lost count of the steps he had taken. Wynn stopped for an instant, looked first down- then upstairs and took the next step, shaking his head.

"Honestly? I don't know. Under normal circumstances, I would say that a paracosmos as detailed and huge as this is absolutely impossible, but so was what happened to us just now. I have never seen anything like it," he said. He sounded even more out of breath than Gwaine felt. "I don't think even Ceri could create anything this sophisticated and she was hailed as a prodigy from the moment she cast her first illusion. Then again, maybe she might...but it would leave her target a vegetable and I don't think she'd be willing to do that."

"You mean this stuff can cause brain damage?" Gwaine exclaimed, horrified. Wynn shrugged without turning around.

"Creating a paracosmos in another person's mind is like taking clay and turn it into a piece of art, all of it blindfolded. Do it wrong and it will crack when you burn it. The larger it is, the more details it has, the higher the risk of pieces breaking off. And by pieces I mean our minds, of course."

"Of course," Gwaine repeated slowly. "Great. This just keeps getting better and better."

"Well, we're both still sane, or as sane as we ever were, so I think we're safe. If we were going to crack, it would have started much earlier. You don't feel a mad urge to laugh or ramble or do anything that one would usually associate with madness, do you?" Wynn asked, throwing him a look over his shoulder. Gwaine shook his head mutely.

"Grand, neither do I. I think we're going to be fine. Though I must say, I'm not sure that's a good thing."

"Yes, because who wants to be in their right mind?" Gwaine said. Wynn giggled but stopped immediately.

"I mean that whoever is doing this is insanely powerful. This should be beyond any person's ability, let alone a child's. It's abnormal. Monstrous, even. Nobody should be able to feed this much information through the Abstract Intersect. Establishing a path over this many incidents would burn out anybody within minutes."

"The what? A path over what?" Gwaine asked.

"The Abstract Intersect, a path over incidents. In magical theory it is generally assumed, that the world is divided in three spheres. Intersubjective Perception, Abstract Intersect and Objective Truth. The first one contains everything that people perceive as 'physical reality'. It is a shared experience, therefore intersubjective. The Abstract Intersect encompasses those things that are not physical, yet perceived as real and shared to a certain degree, thoughts, dreams, language, mathematics...those kind of things. Objective Truth is the outer shell containing the two other spheres and it is what no human can perceive, but which yet defines all of our existence...wait just a second." Wynn stopped and took a couple of deep breaths, holding his side.

"Stitches?" Gwaine asked. Wynn nodded.

"Want to take a break?"

"No, I'm good. If we take breaks, we won't reach the top until we're old and grey. Older and greyer, in your case," Wynn muttered, taking the next step. Gwaine huffed and shook his head.

"Now, where was I? Oh, yes, the Three Sphere Theory. Generally, the three spheres are envisioned as an endless and intricate web of knots, so-called incidents, connected to each other in certain ways. Knots that are tightly interconnected within one sphere are called incident clusters. A person, for example, their life seen as a non-linear accumulation of incidents, is a smaller incident cluster. The paths that connect the separate incident clusters determine what can and can not be done. Magic essentially establishes a temporary path between two incident clusters in the sphere of intersubjective perception that would usually be connected through too many knots to be called a cluster, routing through the Abstract Intersect and the Objective Truth. Of course there are rules to how many knots you can use in such a relay, partially determined by the complexity of their incident cluster, their mental capacity and several other things dependant on the two other spheres. It would take too long to explain it all, it draws heavily on mathematical models and a non-linear concept of time."

"Which is...?"

"What we call fate and history all mingled up in one big mass of...stuff. It doesn't really matter, nobody bothers to learn about it all, it has little practical import, except for when you want to design your own spells or mess around with the rules. Frankly, the people who developed it were out of their brilliant minds and so is anybody who understands it."

"You seem to have a good grasp on it," Gwaine remarked dryly. Wynn laughed depreciatively.

"I'm not even close to having a 'good grasp' of the whole thing. I mean it, understanding it would require you to basically renounce all that which we call common sense. Even your humanity itself. You know that feeling, shortly before you fall asleep, of touching upon something so profound and terrifying that all of your mental defences slam down? Something stirring in the back of your mind, some idea that you can't quite put your finger on and would never be able to put in words?"

"Oh yes," Gwaine said. It was the feeling he had gotten back in his cell and every once in a while, he still felt it loom in the shadows around them. He felt his spine crawl just thinking about it.

"Well, imagine plunging into it and becoming a part of it. That's what knowing the Objective Truth should feel like. I don't know for certain though, I generally fancy myself a sane person, though according to some, the jury is still out on that. The important part is that in mental magic, one links through the Abstract Intersect. Seers use it to catch a glimpse of the future, em- and telepaths connect to the thoughts and emotions of other people through it, Wanderers route through it into other people's dreams. Paracosmic illusions are projected into another person's mind through it. Hence the spell being tied to specific images and thoughts, uncovering which will cause feedback and release the spell."

"Because they're linked through the knots that represent them?" Gwaine asked. Wynn whooped, causing Gwaine to jump.

"Exactly! Rot, you really are a genius! Fools like me take years to muddle through all of it, and here you are, catching on in a matter of minutes. Dash it, these stairs sure have the devil in them...I don't think I have ever felt this exhausted in my life." Wynn stopped again, turning a little and leaning against the wall. He was breathing heavily and there were small beads of sweat on his forehead.

"Are you sure you don't want to take a break? You look like you could need one," Gwaine said. Wynn nodded, wiped his mouth, then he shook his head and smiled.

"Never mind me, I'm fine. I guess as a knight you have to keep in shape, and so we have to do in acquisitions, but I've been taking something of a sabbatical lately. No excuse for such a dirt poor performance, though. I've shamefully neglected my training, I'm afraid." He looked up the never ending stairs and took a deep breath, then pushed himself away from the wall with a light groan and continued on their way up.

Gwaine regarded the boy's back with a pensive look. He didn't know how long exactly it had taken him to 'muddle through it all', but considering his age, it couldn't have taken that long. His flights into light hearted jokes and determined silliness aside, he talked and thought like a scholar. What was someone like him doing being a common thief? The kind of knowledge he kept demonstrating took time and money to acquire. Initially he had thought that Wynn just liked reading a little too much, but this wasn't the kind of education you got by picking up a book or two in your spare time, even if you were extremely smart. No amount of self-study could replace systematic instruction and that was what he had obviously enjoyed, if not now, then at least sometime in his past.

And then Gwaine realised with a shock that all he knew about Wynn he had learned from him and nobody but him. It could all be lies.

He had been awfully quick to trust him, because...why? Because he seemed like an open-hearted person, because he had come back for Gwaine, because he was a harmless kid. But he wasn't all that harmless, was he? Gwaine had witnessed him killing a person. He had looked genuinely distraught at the time, but he might just be a very good actor. Wynn had been the one who had engaged Gwaine in conversation, he was the one who had gotten him kicked out of the tavern. Then he had wound up in the yard and gotten Gwaine caught. He had known Goatee's real name, he was also from Escetia, also from Segoncaer. Why had it taken him two days to come back for Gwaine, if that was what he had intended to do the whole time? He claimed that he had been following Goatee, but Gwaine had no way to confirm that. Wynn was the one who had led them into a dead end back in the hallway, he was the one who had insisted on spending even more time wandering the corridors. Wynn, who had been conveniently absent when Gwaine heard the steps and whom he had run into while pursuing them. Wynn had been abnormally calm the entire time while they were enclosed by walls, when anybody else his age should have been scared out of their wits. Wynn had been the one who had told Gwaine about paracosmic illusions, he was the one who had figured out the crucial hint that led them to guessing 'Annwn' as the first release. Wynn, who was improbably unconcerned about what Gwaine strongly suspected to be a permanently crippling injury. Too unconcerned? Was it not real? Or did it not matter to him because...because he didn't really need his arm? Wynn, who carried the polar-rune and compass, both of which must be magical devices, who read runes and spoke the old language. Wynn who knew so much, _far_ too much, about _magic_?

But he isn't a little girl, a voice in Gwaine's head said. The knight shook his head. Wynn had also been the one who had suggested that the sorcerer in question was a little girl in the first place. It had been a stretch, Gwaine had said so back then and he was thinking even more so now.

Everything that had happened to Gwaine these past two – or was it three now? - days, Wynn had been involved in it somehow. Right at the core of it, always watching Gwaine, steering him every which way.

What if it was all him? What if he was the sorcerer, illusionist, raven, whatever you wanted to call it?

But if so, what was the plan? Why play such a complicated game? If it was just to lure Gwaine to his death, there had been plenty of opportunities. Was he merely enjoying watching Gwaine squirm, like a cat plays with a mouse before killing it? Or was it that he wanted something? What did Gwaine have that might be of interest to Wynn and that he couldn't take by force, if he was a sorcerer?

The one thing you can't gain by force, no matter how hard you try but which is easily formed under duress. Trust. And what did Gwaine have that required trust? Access. He was a knight. He had access to the castle, the king, to Arthur...who was on his way to Hadrot, whom Goatee And Company had shown interest in. Hadrot, where Wynn had said Goatee had gone and where he had hinted he wanted to follow him. Hadrot, where Gwaine intended to go when this was over to try and meet up with _Arthur_.

Bloody hell! Was Wynn intending to use Gwaine to get close to Arthur? But why? It wasn't like Arthur struck down anybody who came within a one mile radius of him without a letter of reference and endorsement by one of his friends. If the things Wynn had told him about magic held true, he was powerful. Arthur wouldn't be able to stop him. No, a sorcerer that powerful, only...another sorcerer could stop...Merlin!

That was it! If Merlin was a sorcerer who had protected Arthur all this time, then he would be wary of other sorcerers and he might be able to stop Wynn before he could do whatever he intended to do. But if, on the other hand, Gwaine introduced him as a friend, a kid that had helped him out of a pinch, then Merlin would probably lower his guard!

Gwaine stopped abruptly, staring at the step he had just been about to take. Was Wynn really capable of devising and executing such a complex plan? He might very well be, even at his age. Though, now that Gwaine thought of it, that, too, might just be an illusion. A sorcerer could probably look like whatever he wanted to look like. If he could make walls and water appear out of thin air, then he could probably change his appearance, his age, his gender...everything.

"Something the matter?" Gwaine's head shot up. Wynn had stopped also and turned around. He was watching Gwaine's face curiously, that perpetual smile curling his lips, a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. Was there also a trace of disdain in his young face? Was he laughing silently about how gullible Gwaine was?

"No," Gwaine said, trying his best to sound normal, "Just thinking. About everything you told me about magic."

"Are you now," Wynn said, his expression unreadable beyond the amiable mask, "and how is that coming? Anything useful you thought of?"

"N-Nothing in particular," Gwaine replied, feeling his hand clasp around thin air. He had lost the sword he had taken from Humpty Dumpty when the chamber flooded. He was unarmed, defenceless. His glance fell on Wynn's dagger and his palms started to sweat. Not that the boy – or whoever he was – would need it. He could kill him with one flick of the finger, probably. Or, if using magic was too much of an effort, just one good shove and Gwaine would fall off the narrow, rail-less stairs, down into the depths of the tower, his body smashing on the cold stones far below.

"I see. What a shame," Wynn said and resumed climbing the stairs, "Well, carry on regardless. Thinking is always a good thing, isn't it? Makes you see things in a different light." Gwaine swallowed and followed. If he was right about the purpose of this scheme, then Wynn would lead him outside at some point or other. Once they were clear of this house, Gwaine would have a much better chance at getting away. Or, if he couldn't do that, now that he knew the truth, he certainly wouldn't give Wynn any chance to get close to Arthur. No, the closer he stayed to the boy, the more he could watch him and the better were his chances at foiling his plan. His best option was to pretend that he had fallen for this act completely and keep Wynn in the dark. He, too, was a passable actor and deceit worked both ways. He would put an end to whatever Wynn was planning. He was at an advantage here.

"Rot," Wynn muttered. Gwaine looked up. They had reached the end of the stairs, apparently. Wynn was standing on the top step, facing an arch, his back filling out Gwaine's field of vision.

"This certainly wasn't part of the plan, being caught. I hate it when that happens." Gwaine's heart started racing. Could the boy read his mind as well? Did he know that Gwaine had figured out what he was?

"I take it this game of hide and seek is over, is it then?" Wynn asked quietly, his hand reaching for what must be the dagger at his side. Gwaine's fingers once again curled around empty air.

/~/~/

_End-of-staircase-stander! I hope you enjoyed this double update and will share your thoughts in a review. I can't read them, you see?_

_Cheers, C._

**Next time: **The sorcerer is finally revealed! More fun and games to come. _We'll have so much fun, you'll see..._


	13. The Curious Case of Sir Gwaine

_Many thanks to Cwam for beta'ing this chapter, and to my brother and my RL friend A. for letting me ping ideas off them. Always thankful to reviewers and subscribers._

**Chapter 12:**

**The Curious Case of Sir Gwaine**

Wynn's arm withdrew from his waist, the blade of his dagger grating against the scabbard as he unsheathed it. Gwaine shifted his weight towards his centre of gravity and the muscles in his legs tensed. It might be that he stood little chance against a sorcerer, but he would certainly put up one hell of a fight.

Steel clattered to the ground and Wynn took a step backwards. The sole of his boot scraped against the edge of the step he was standing on.

Gwaine only realised that he was falling when the boy had already crashed into him. Luckily, he had been prepared for something, though it certainly wasn't this. Instinctively, his hands closed around the boy's shoulder at the same time as he let the momentum carry him, not backwards, but to the side, into the wall. He still tumbled down a couple of steps, his back scraping against the wall. His stomach lurched when his right foot remained suspended in the air for an instant. Then it found support on the step below and Gwaine regained his balance. Wynn was heavy in his arms, making no effort to stand up straight. In fact, he wasn't moving at all.

Stunned, Gwaine looked down. The boy's face was pale and his eyes were closed so far, only thin slits of white were visible.

"Whoops," said a voice above his head, "That might have been just a tad too much. Haven't had one faint on me in months, but he's a bit tattered, isn't he? I prefer my toys to be in pristine condition, but that's what I get for being such a wild child, mummy always says." Light steps accompanied by the soft rustling of expensive clothes drew nearer and stopped for an instant. Then she appeared in Gwaine's field of sight.

He knew instantly that he'd been wrong. It didn't matter where Wynn had learned about magic, it didn't matter whether he had told Gwaine nothing but the truth or lied about everything. It wasn't him who was doing all this, it was her.

A little girl, maybe ten or eleven years old, whose very sight made Gwaine's spine crawl and his insides twist. Dressed in many layers of white flowing silk and long black hair braided back from a broad forehead in stern plaits, she looked like a carefully crafted porcelain doll. Her skin was almost as white as her dress and her small mouth matched the crimson lace trimmings on the sleeves and wide skirts. In her hands she held Wynn's dagger, looking twice as deadly resting limply between her tiny fingers than it had when Wynn was handling it expertly. She raised it up and smiled lightly.

"Pretty," she muttered, pressing one finger against the tip. A red pearl rolled over the edge of the blade and dropped to the ground. Her mouth formed a silent 'oh' and she stuck her finger into it, sucking a little.

"My, my, how dangerous," she said around it, giving Wynn a stern look, "Didn't your mummy tell you that children aren't supposed to play with sharp objects? What a very bad boy you've been." She carelessly dropped the dagger. It bounced once or twice, slithered over the stone and fell off the ledge into the depths of the tower. Gwaine heard a distant ringing when it hit the tiles far below.

"A very, very bad boy," she repeated and giggled, "How wonderful. I like those the best. So entertaining. We'll have so much fun together, now..." Her gaze shifted and Gwaine found himself staring right into her eyes. They were huge and save for two dark pupils, completely void of colour.

"Let's see about the other one, why don't we? But careful, he's also a bit banged up...don't dig too deep."

The next moment, Gwaine found himself falling, or being pulled, or swept away – it was a little of everything and yet none of it.

/~/

...He was riding; the young knight beside him talking about how he didn't think taking a detour was a good idea. Gwaine rolled his eyes and gave his horse the spurs...

...He was swinging his sword, parrying a blow from one of the immortal warriors. He sidestepped, turned on his own axis and thrust his sword through the man's back. Gwaine withdrew his sword and the warrior swayed, regained his balance, and came at him again with such ferocity that Gwaine's hands turned numb within seconds...

...He was kneeling on the cold earth, Arthur above him, softly stroking both his shoulders with his blade, pronouncing him a knight to Camelot. Gwaine felt excited and a little bit nauseous. This wasn't what he had expected, having so much trust and expectations placed in him. Why had he let himself be swept up in this madness? Yet he could not refuse it. The idea of once more having a place to call home was too powerful to fight. He had stopped moving for too long already, but it somehow seemed less important now. After all, it wouldn't last – they were probably not going to remain alive for very long. Not enough time for him to regret this decision...

...He was running up the stairs. Suddenly Merlin was gone, one moment right there with them, the next disappeared. Arthur and he shouted his name...

...He was sitting in a tavern across a young woman, dark-skinned woman. If he let the dim light and the mead deceive him, he could see a trace of her in this too strongly painted face. She smiled and the illusion was destroyed by the hungry expression in her dark eyes. He turned away...

...He was riding down a dusty road on a horse he had bought with money he didn't really have. He'd said goodbye to that young man with the awkward ears just two days ago. He'd taken an instant liking to Merlin, with his happy nature and eyes that sometimes didn't match his young face. Maybe it was just as well that he had to leave. He had been in danger of really wishing to stay and that would mean tying himself to people once more. He had to keep on moving. Seylif had been right. Once you start running, you can never stop. But still Gwaine had rather kept running than let everything catch up to him...

...Good lord, what a prick this Arthur was, just like the rest of them. Walking all over people just because his daddy was the king...so why was it again that he had just jumped in the middle of a fight to save his life? He must be insane...

...He was slamming some guy into a wall who had gotten a bit too much into the ale and in consequence a little too deep into his own ego. Gwaine hadn't even been talking about him, yet here they were, one with a broken nose and blood-smeared face, one with an empty feeling in his gut. Just another night, just another fight...

...He was throwing one last glance at the outer walls of Segoncaer. The death-bell was tolling once again. It hadn't stopped ringing for weeks now, as the plague rampaged through the city's narrow alleys and inside the old houses, burning out all live within. The streets were one big funeral procession until the cemeteries could take no more and the stink of corpses filled the air of the still unnaturally scalding autumn. He closed his eyes and left, not looking back even once...

"You're an annoying twat," Seylif said, his dark face unreadable, "a git. Really and truly. I should make good on my promise, I really should." Gwaine gripped his pack tighter, pushed it up and, turning away, started down the street.

"You won't be able to stop running once you start, you know!" Seylif shouted. Gwaine continued walking.

"Coward!" Another step forward.

"Don't you dare come back! Ever!" And several more. He turned around the corner.

"Shit!" Seylif's voice was growing more distant by the second and Gwaine tried to tie all of the memories to it.

"I'll bloody end you if I ever see your face again! Just remember that!" But Gwaine really didn't want to remember and if forgetting meant creating a hole and an enemy of his friend, well, he'd rather be empty and hated than what he was feeling right now. He wasn't coming back, in any case. He was now down the street, ready to turn into the main-road. The wind carried the last of Seylif's voice to him, but it was already too weak to make out the words...

...Seylif laughed and almost choked on a mouthful of potatoes. Gwaine managed to keep a straight face right until the point when the water came spurting out of the older man's nose, then he had to let it out lest one of his ribs should crack. Delyth shot him a stern glance, patting her brother's back. Gwaine immediately stopped laughing. He didn't want the trouble that came with _that_ look...

..."Well, it could have been worse," Daniel said, stroking his greying mustache and looking over the living room. "It's very...quaint." Gwaine looked at his hands. The whole apartment could probably fit into the parlour of Gwaine's in-laws, but it was in the same part of town and had a very charming architecture. Or so Delyth had said, Gwaine was no judge. It hadn't mattered; he hadn't really gotten a word in edge-wise as she chattered on about furniture to the young woman selling it. Gwaine strongly suspected that she was the mistress of someone, moving on to even greener pastures judging by her pitying expression.

Most importantly though, he could afford it on his own without having to sell body-parts to sorcerers. Whatever they needed human spleen for. Gwaine hadn't asked the old bat that had offered him gold for it, he'd just legged it out of there as quickly as possible.

"I think it's very beautiful. I love what you have done with this room," Awen said, placing a white hand on her husband's ebony coloured one and smiling at Gwaine, "It has such a happy feel to it. And so much light and fresh air! Must be because it's so high up."

"I guess so," Daniel grumbled. That was as much of an approval as Gwaine was going to get. 'I guess so' and 'Well, it could have been worse' had been Daniel's response to pretty much any kind of praise directed at Gwaine. It wasn't that he didn't like him (or so Seylif claimed), more that he thought his only daughter could have done much better and silently, Gwaine agreed. He was still waiting to wake up and discover it had all been a dream.

"And look, you can see all the roofs from the balcony," Awen continued, "it's very beautiful."

"It is, isn't it?" Delyth chimed in, "We're going to let it grow over with ivy and wild wine and all kinds of green, and it will be like having a small garden in the middle of town. And you should see it at night, it's breathtaking, you can see all the lights and the smoke rising from the chimneys and yesterday we saw a tiler at work. It was almost magical, the way he went from one roof to the other under the full moon. I really don't know how they do it; they've got to have perfect balance." Gwaine groaned inwardly as Daniel raised an eyebrow. Both of them knew that Delyth wasn't referring to the kind of tiler that fixed roofs. Delyth also noticed her father's disapproving look and her cheeks flushed.

"He was very far away," she muttered, "a tiny little figure on the horizon, really. Almost invisible."

"Aha," Daniel made, looking dubious. Seylif gave one of his barking laughs and threw his arm around Delyth's shoulder.

"Don't be a grumpy old seal, father. There are burglars everywhere. _Our_ house got robbed two years ago, remember?"

"Yes, they took the necklace you gave me for our first anniversary," Awen sighed, "I loved that piece."

"And the earrings I gave Delyth for her seventeenth birthday," Seylif groaned, "_I_ loved those, or the many hours I put into saving up for them, more like."

"And father's favourite pipe," Delyth chuckled, "remember, the carved one? From overseas? He first turned all red, then white and then purple-ish and communicated non-verbally for at least half an hour. I thought you were going to take out a crow on the tilers when you discovered it was missing!"

"I would _never_," Daniel said indignantly, "It's a very disreputable thing to do."

"Yes, having someone assassinated over a pipe definitely qualifies as 'disreputable'," Seylif said, laughing. Daniel shook his head.

"Whatever did I do to deserve such silly children?" he asked, rolling his eyes at the ceiling, "I should like to know, I really should."

"You love your silly children," Delyth said, taking Gwaine's hand and raising it up a little, "you think we're brilliant. All of us are absolutely brilliant and you're going to have a brilliant time with your even sillier grandchildren."

"Well, I guess it could be worse," Daniel grumbled, stroking his mustache awkwardly and sitting down in one of the chairs, "I guess it really could have been much worse."...

..."Newly-weds, eh?" the old pedlar asked with a sly look at their hands, "shopping for your new home? Very fine eye you've got there, Ma'am, these plates are a bargain and they've got a beautiful history."

"Yeah, a bargain where I have to sell my soul to the devil," Gwaine grumbled, "Just sign on the dotted line and you get a personal torture-demon for free." He was dubiously regarding the set of dinnerware Delyth had pointed out with shining eyes. They were ancient looking, in a good way, and expensive looking, in a bad way.

"Oh, don't be like that, you didn't even ask what they cost," Delyth said, hooking her arm into his. The many parcels he was carrying wobbled dangerously. Gwaine bit back a comment on 'high maintenance'. She had sworn that she didn't mind having to cut a couple of corners, but as the daughter of a second generation very-well-to-do merchant, she had never cut a corner in her life before. He had always been afraid that she wouldn't be able to do it. That was why it had taken him so long to get himself to ask for her hand. Well, it had felt like an eternity, in reality he had known her for just over a year when he went to ask for her father's permission. Daniel had frowned at the disastrous state of Gwaine's financials, snarled at Seylif for encouraging Gwaine, sighed at his wife's entreating look, shook his head at Delyth's unsuspecting smile at dinner that night and barked a grumpy 'I guess it could have been worse' the next morning, which Gwaine had felt so free to interpret as an agreement.

Gwaine would rather die than ask for assistance so soon, but he knew that if he had to grovel to make her happy, he'd muzzle his pride and do it. Though not before he'd tried everything in his might to convince her that the plates two booths over, albeit less ornate and younger in age, would make their food taste no worse. 'Beautiful History' isn't a spice, after all.

"I don't _need_ to ask, I can-" he started, but was interrupted by an ear-splitting rumbling above their heads. He looked up instinctively, thinking it was thunder. The sky was clear and free of clouds. The loud noise, now clearer and less deafening, was the ringing of a bell. Strange, just five minutes ago the church had rung Sext, so why was it tolling again? Just as he was going to look back down, a column of smoke shot up into the air, much faster than smoke should ever move. Somebody in the crowd screamed, people gaped upwards with open mouths. Above his head towered the giant figure of a woman, a bit wobbly and the air rippling around her like the water on the surface of a pond. She was dressed in an old-fashioned calf-length tunic, chest covered by a golden breast-plate. Flames licked her feet and hands, leaving no trace on the white, translucent skin. Even if Gwaine hadn't seen her once before in this very spot, all those months ago when it appeared for the first time and people screamed her name, he would have known immediately who it was. Statues of personified Escetia had been standing all over town before they had been replaced by Cenred's own likenesses, when he decided it wouldn't do for people to worship the land as they had done under the previous king.

"It's back again," whispered the pedlar next to him, "I heard it has been appearing all over town, always five minutes after Sext, same time as when..." He fell quiet as Escetia started forward through the air. Right above the centre of the square she stopped and slowly raised a hand, pointing at the stone statue of Cenred.

"I have pointed out my murderer, my children," she said in a booming voice that sent vibrations through Gwaine's chest, "Heed!" She turned her head and looked over the heads of the crowd, her eyes literally blazing with fury.

"Heed!" she repeated, and again, "Heed!" The clock finished striking. Her figure twisted and swirled and lost form. Clouds of smoke lingered in the air for a couple of moments, and then dissipated. Delyth's grip tightened around Gwaine's arm and one of the parcels dropped to the ground.

"I wish whoever thinks this is funny would stop," she muttered grumpily, "Every time it appears people start going crazy with conspiracy theories."

"They think it's really the spirit of the land, not a prank. Maybe she wants them to stop talking and start acting," a light voice said at Gwaine's elbow. He looked down and discovered a boy with messy brown hair, staring not up at the sky like the rest of them, but throwing sharp glances at the streets leading into the square. His clothes screamed urchin, dirty and tattered as they were, but unlike most of the homeless kids, Gwaine couldn't smell the odour of the streets on him.

"They might start by taking down those monstrosities." He pointed at the prison tower in the distance. From where they were standing, it was impossible to see them, but Gwaine knew he meant the seven skeletons positioned on the rooftop, overlooking the entire city.

"The Segoncaer Gargoyles?" Gwaine asked, "What do they have to do with anything?" The boy looked up and flashed him a grin.

"Oh, I don't know. It's just a feeling, you know. I've had it ever since she appeared the first time at the executions, just when they were getting started, and all that. Though I find 'massacre' a much better term," he said, throwing another look at one of the alley-entrances, squinting.

"Dash it; they're getting faster each time, rotten critters. This is me." He stuck two fingers in his mouth and gave a shrill, drawn out whistle and two shorter ones, the volume of which left Gwaine with ringing ears. Then he shot away, slipping through small gaps in the crowd. From somewhere on the other side of the market, another pattern of whistles could be heard, short-short-long, as if responding to the boy's, then several more whistles, all different patterns from all over the place. Only when a couple of harassed looking town-guards pushed past Gwaine, cursing about pickpockets, did he notice that his purse was gone...

...He shivered in the strong wind, seawater splashing on deck and covering him from head to toe. He could just join the others in the cabin, but he felt like he was sitting on hot coals down there. It was, of course, a ridiculous notion, but somehow he felt like the passage would be over faster if he was up here watching those white cliffs draw nearer and nearer at a still agonising pace...

..."It's just one year and they pay a fortune," Gwaine said.

"It's a _whole_ year and you'd have to travel across the British Sea!" Delyth said heatedly.

"That's kind of the point. I need to get out of here for a while, after what happened," Gwaine replied, pointing at his still sore side, "Until, you know, they get that I'm not working for Rowan anymore and clip the wings on me."

"It's because you have to go and work as a scarecrow!" Delyth snapped, "You could just join father's business, he's offered it, you know?" Gwaine gave a snort.

"Yes and what a fine clothing merchant I should be. I can't tell tabby from twill if my life depended on it, never could, and my sales pitch is a wonder to behold," he said, "I'd ruin your father's business in the blink of an eye."

"So you can't work for father, but you can work for some random other merchant?"

"As a personal guard, not an expert on fine dress or trade-relations!"

"I hate it! There are all kinds of things that could happen, you could get robbed by those Frankish people, they sound really menacing, I hear their women are like mountain trolls, or those others, the ones they are fighting with, or there could be a ship-wreck or something!"

"And I might slip in the streets and crack my skull open. Or I might choke on a chicken-bone; I hear that happens a lot over there too." Gwaine said seriously, "Though I also hear it's not _really_ chicken."

"It's not funny! If you lie low, you won't have any problems with the tumblers, you know you won't."

"All of the half-decent jobs have something to do with the Director or the top-act," Gwaine said.

"You were perfectly fine with the jobs you got before you got mixed up with the Ring, just do those again."

"That was before I met you. It's different now," Gwaine said calmly. Delyth narrowed her eyes at him, positively bristling.

"Are you saying I'm high maintenance?" she asked slowly, "Is that it? Is this some kind of roundabout way of making a clean break?"

"Dear Lord, Delyth, don't be ridiculous! Your brother would definitely duel me by the riverbank at daybreak if I dared pull something like that!" Gwaine laughed. Delyth threw him a poisonous look and he stopped.

"So you're just trying to avoid battling my brother?" she said, "I'll tell him to keep his gauntlets to himself. You're free to break up with me without getting yourself massacred by some Brunhildis or Hildegard or whatever they're called over there." Gwaine bit his lip. This was going so much worse than he had ever imagined it.

"You've got this all backwards," he said, raising his hands, "I don't want to break up, I want us to have a future. It's not just a couple of silvers more we're talking about here, or just keeping out of the tumblers' way! You know where I live, the part of town. I don't even want to think about you wandering around down there on your own. If I take this job, I'd be able to save up for something proper. I could..." he took a breath, "Look, this really isn't how I wanted to do this, but if that's what you're worried about..." He got off his chair and down on one knee, feeling foolish and excited at the same time. Delyth suddenly turned quiet.

"When I come back, will you marry me?" he asked. She just stared at him for a very long time.

"You're insane," she finally muttered.

"And who's to blame for that?" he asked, "You never did help me find my sanity in the end. It's probably gathering dust in some dark alley around the corner." Her lips twitched...

..."Just a little further, mate," Seylif muttered through gritted teeth, pushing open the door and shouting for his sister. Gwaine heard a flurry of steps and a startled cry, and then he saw Delyth's face, a bit blurred.

"What happened? Seylif, your face! And Gwaine...!" she cried, "Oh my God, is that a knife?" He winced when she touched his side and she recoiled.

"Some breeders jumped him when we were coming back," Seylif said with a light growl, "Go get a physician. Darian. Or, no; he might not be in, try Old Gelly's. One of his assistants will be there, if not he."

"Right," she muttered, "Right, I'll be right back." Gwaine heard her skirt rustle and her steps retreat hastily, and then the door slammed shut. Seylif pushed him up and half dragged him into the living-room, depositing him on something soft. Gwaine caught a shimmer of green and red.

"Your mother will kill us," he mumbled, "she loves this couch."

"Shut up, you twat," Seylif said, "Father will be all the happier for it. He can't stand the thing." Gwaine thought about that for a while. He really needed all the bonus points he could get with Delyth's father, but her mother had been a valuable ally. He groaned when Seylif pressed something against his side, sending waves of hot pain through his entire body and decided he'd figure it out later.

"Ninny," the older man said.

"Will you_ ever stop_ insulting me?" Gwaine asked.

"In your dreams, mate, in your dreams. Somebody's got to keep you grounded and from getting ideas."

"Too late, I've already got ideas. Big ones," Gwaine muttered, "And you love my ideas. They're brilliant. You encourage me. Nice-ish bloke, remember? Much nicer than all the stupid rich prats, I am." It was a little difficult to keep his eyes open, so he let them fall shut. Wasn't much to see anyway. He knew Seylif's silly mug by heart, though a beautiful shiner and the gap in his lip were certainly a new addition.

"Eyes open, you bleeding git!" Seylif snapped, cuffing him lightly. Gwaine couldn't very well argue with the bleeding, though he did think he should complain about the git-part. It seemed like so much trouble though, and Seylif would just keep on insulting him anyway. He always did.

"Oh no, you don't," Seylif hissed, cuffing him again, harder this time. It hurt, damn it! Like Gwaine wasn't in enough pain already, no, the guy had to go and pound on his head.

"Don't you dare, you annoying twat. I told you I'd end you if you hurt my sister! Dying definitely counts, you hear me?"

"Better 'urry't up 'en," Gwaine said. Was it just him or did that sound somehow weird? "But I'm not goin' to the riverbank, juss so you know; I still don't have a second."

"Shit," Seylif said, the pressure in Gwaine's side increasing, "Shit, shit, shit." He sounded a bit panicky, which was definitely weird, because Seylif never sounded panicky. Seylif was the most un-panicky guy Gwaine knew. And not having a second wasn't really all that bad.

"Come on, talk to me. Who were those guys? Gwaine!" Because that was the weirdest weird in the Land of Weird, Gwaine actually managed to crack open one eye. Seylif didn't call him by his name, ever, not in the whole seven months he'd known him.

"What?" he asked.

"Those guys, who were they?" Seylif repeated slowly.

"Dunno. Guys. Many of them. A lot many. A big lot." He hadn't exactly counted; he'd been busy trying to keep hitting their faces with his fists. Unfortunately, they had a lot more faces than he had fists, even with Seylif's two additional ones.

"Yes, I noticed there were a big lot many," Seylif said dryly, "who's that Rowan they wanted you to deliver a message to?"

"Client. 'S got sum issue with the Director, I think," Gwaine mumbled, his eye falling shut again. Much better.

"The D- lice of lies! You really are crazy! What did you go and get yourself involved with that kind of trouble for!?"

"Paid really well, 'n I needed the money," Gwaine replied, "'s nuff to buy ring." It was really simple; any fool should be able to see that. Seylif didn't reply for a really long time and Gwaine felt triumphant under all the sick, somewhere. Can't beat logic.

"You are such a silly idiot," the older man finally muttered. It sounded very soft, just like the hand on Gwaine's forehead felt. Though that might just be Gwaine. Everything was beginning to feel soft and fluffy.

"What use is a ring to you if you're dead?" That, of course, was question which also had certain logic to it and Gwaine had a bit of trouble thinking of a good answer. He was still contemplating it when something crashed and he heard the agitated voice of Awen. He'd told Seylif she'd be mad about the couch, he really had...

...Gwaine opened his mouth to take a bite of his sandwich and promptly inhaled a portion of white bread and butter, when his nose was shoved into it. He turned around to snarl at whoever had bumped into him, but swallowed the worst of it when he saw Seylif towering above him.

"What did you hit me for?" he asked, indignant.

"Absolutely nothing," Seylif replied, settling down on the stairs next to him, "You've got something on your face, by the way. A lot of something." Gwaine shot him a poisonous glance and wiped as much of his lunch off his face as he could manage.

"Isn't that just lovely," he grumbled, looking at the squashed remains of his sandwich, "and is it fun, hitting me for nothing?"

"I imagine it's great fun, but I didn't hit you. Have one of these," Seylif said, tossing him a package wrapped in paper.

"Can't vouch for the taste, Delyth made it and I don't think she's ever tried cooking before. But there's only so much that can go wrong with bread and cheese, right?" Gwaine took the package with a sigh and turned it in his hands.

"Now, I _did_ kick you because you haven't shown your idiot mug in over a week and – please don't tell her that I told you, I still haven't lost hope that some woman is going to want my children – Delyth is pining."

"I see," Gwaine said, still looking at the wrapped sandwiches.

"Pining, I'm telling you. As in, going about the house, sighing for no apparent reason at impossible times. I swear, soon she'll start wearing white night-gowns and rattling chains."

"I see," Gwaine repeated with another sigh. Seylif raised an eyebrow and leaned back to take in Gwaine's full appearance.

"And you look like you haven't slept in days. Also moping, I take it." Then he groaned and added; "Please tell me this isn't some kind of lovers' spat?" Gwaine shook his head listlessly. Seylif pursed his lips.

"Riiight," he said slowly, "are you doing that because I told you to, or because it really isn't?" Gwaine shrugged and plucked at the paper in his hands.

"Twat, I'm going to drag you to the riverbank if you don't start using what is called 'words'. You know that thing where you open your mouth and make sounds which are traditionally accepted as interpersonal communication. I'm demonstrating it right now."

"Not good enough," Gwaine mumbled.

"Yes, and I should have added 'coherent'. Coherent interpersonal communication."

"I'm not good enough for her."

"Obviously, I've been telling you that for months. Never stopped you showing up before."

"Your father hates me." Seylif, who was chewing on a sandwich of his own, coughed twice, hit his chest and swallowed.

"What? Where did you get that idea?" Gwaine stared at him mutely.

"Because of the Pants-Debacle?" Seylif asked. "And the Roast-Mutton-and-Pea-Conflict? And the Battle of Twills and Tabby? The Dalliance Incident?" Gwaine groaned.

"They have names now? He _named_ them?"

"No,_ I_ named them and it was a lot of fun. Is that all then?"

"I'm a nobody and dirt-poor, too," Gwaine said miserably, "A creepy stalker." Seylif laughed.

"Yes, well. Can't argue with any of that."

"He hates me," Gwaine repeated.

"Did he threaten to set the dogs on you?" Seylif asked. Gwaine looked at him, horrified.

"He sets dogs on people?"

"No, he _threatens_ to set them on people. We don't actually have dogs, as you very well know."

"Your mother has one."

"Oh yes, terrifying beast, that. It might even tickle when it bites. So he didn't threaten to set the dogs on you. Cheer up mate, it means he adores you."

"He growled at me. _Growled_. That's not adoration."

"Well, maybe 'adores' is a bit of a strong word, but he likes you. As much as he can like anybody Delyth is serious about. All fathers think their daughters deserve much better than they get in the end. Father would complain if God himself asked for Delyth's hand."

"I haven't asked for her hand yet."

"But you will," Seylif said matter-of-factly. "And when you do, he'll probably stop talking to me for a couple of days because I encourage you, sigh and grumble a whole lot, turn a little purple, and then he'll agree. Now stop moping and if you don't drop by later to thank Delyth for the sandwich, I'll buy a gauntlet. Don't eat it though, apparently there's a _lot_ that can go wrong with bread and cheese."...

...He was skulking inside a room, feeling awkward and big, even though the room seemed to be specifically designed to make people feel small. His hands didn't quite seem to coordinate with the rest of his body, his palms were sweaty. He felt dirty and grimy in this sparkly clean place. He should have gone to one of the baths and cleaned up properly a second time. A second time because he had already done it that morning. Just one or two more moments and Delyth would come back from whatever room she had disappeared into, her mother or her father – or worse, both of them – in tow. He never made good first impressions. Too late he tried to flatten his hair and check his teeth for any remainders of his dinner in the reflection of the blade of one of his weapons. It was a horrible idea, no matter how you looked at it. The steel distorted his features until he looked like some kind of hideous monster come to rob the cradle of their precious daughter. There were steps coming down the stairs, Delyth talking animatedly to someone and Gwaine tried sheathing the dagger (god forbid, he was going to look like some blood-thirsty mugger), got tangled up in his haste and general nervousness, tugged a little too strongly and presented himself to her father breeches down, looking like some sexual fiend. He _never_ made good first impressions...

..."So you are the annoying twat Delyth has been telling me about," said the dark-skinned man, seizing him up from head to toe. He was maybe five centimetres taller than Gwaine and a bit past his mid-twenties. Maybe his jawline and cheekbones might have looked a little bit attractive to the fair sex, but Gwaine was not impressed. Or he was trying not to be.

"Oi!" Delyth exclaimed, scandalised, "Cut it out! I never said he was an annoying twat!"

"No, I believe your precise words were 'crazy stalker git' who professed his undying love to you before he even knew your name," the man said, a muscle in his jaw twitching.

"I never said undying," Gwaine said, refusing to look away or blink. He _hadn't_ said undying. He had been a bit of a git, probably, but that was neither here nor there. Or any of this guy's business, really. Who was he, anyway? Just because he was a bit good-looking, in a bean-pole, (and definitely, definitely unimpressive) dark and tallish kind of way he shouldn't assume that any right to place his arm around Delyth's shoulder like that. Or make her laugh like that. Or talk to her in that excruciatingly familiar way, his face so close to hers, that had caused Gwaine to come over in the first place and draw himself up to his full height. Which really wasn't that much less than this bloke's.

"So you're saying you're toying with my little sister's fragile maiden heart?" the man growled. Gwaine suppressed the reflex to choke on some filthy curse and groaned inwardly.

"You're Seylif?" he asked, trying very hard not to squirm and throwing Delyth an accusing glance. She could have warned him. Delyth tutted, looking at her brother with a raised eyebrow.

"I'll have you know that my maiden heart is quite resilient, thank you very much," she said sternly, "and nobody is toying with anybody."

"I'm just saying," Seylif replied, "if this-" he waved his hand at Gwaine, like he was some kind of insect, "-pillock thinks he can pull something on you, I'll-"

"Yes, yes, you'll throw down your gauntlet and duel him for my honour by the riverbank at dawn," Delyth said dryly.

"To the death," Seylif added gravely. Gwaine ducked his head a little. Suddenly those five centimetres and couple of years Seylif had on him looked much more impressive. Maybe this was the time for a tactical retreat. At least until he figured out how to make himself look a little less of a pillock or bug that needed to be squashed.

"So, do you have a second?" Seylif asked, raising his eyebrow just like Delyth always did. How had Gwaine missed the family semblance? It was _definitely_ time for a tactical retreat. Gwaine was just about to excuse himself, when he saw the man's mouth twitch. A second later, he was doubled over with laughter, holding his sides.

"Boy, you should see your _face_!" he chuckled, "Hilarious!"

"Oh, ha bloody ha," Gwaine grumbled, feeling like an idiot. He felt Delyth's hand on his arm and looked down at her, her sheepish grin a bit apologetic.

"I'm sorry, he's a bit impossible," she said, "but he means well."

"No, it's fine," Gwaine muttered, feeling something in his chest grow warm and fuzzy and a probably rather silly grin spreading on his face, "I am a bit of an annoying twat, after all. Insane, too. But I mean well." Delyth laughed and the corners of her dark eyes crinkled. Bloody hell, she was beautiful.

"Now, if I can leave you boys alone for a moment, there are some fabrics I would like to check out over there, somebody's been drawing father's business and I. Want. To Know. _Who_. _And. How,_" she said, her eyes sparkling with determination and a crease between her brow.

"No challenges, you," she added, shaking her finger at Seylif, "behave. Can't have you chasing away all of my charming stalkers, or I shall end up an old maid." It was all the better that she turned immediately and disappeared towards the shop with the many bright fabrics on display. Otherwise Gwaine might have done something really stupid. Like propose to her on the spot.

"Oh boy. You really are serious, aren't you?" Seylif asked, still grinning. Gwaine mumbled something non-committal and stuffed his hands into his pockets.

"Good on you, mate," Seylif continued, "she never shuts up about you."

"Really?" Gwaine asked quickly, squaring his shoulders and feeling proud of his achievement. "She really doesn't?"

"Well, at least she's got us all groaning as soon as she mentions your name. It's inevitably followed by a monologue of truly epic proportions on your many failures."

"Oh," Gwaine said, shoulders drooping. "… that's... well... I guess I have those."

Seylif gave a bark of laughter. "Yes, you do. Father takes issue with some of them, especially with you being dirt poor and a complete nobody, but she seems to like it." He paused and looked at Gwaine with a warm smile.

"As far as I'm concerned, you can go ahead and keep looking at her like a love-sick puppy." Gwaine would have loved to argue the point, but he was afraid the description was more accurate than his pride would allow him to admit. Besides, to keep within the imagery, Seylif was throwing him a pretty big bone here. Don't bite the hand that feeds you.

"She's had many a stupider rich prat dance around her and you seem like a nice-ish bloke, from what I can tell. But if you break her heart, or abandon her or anything," he leaned in closer and lowered his voice, "I will end you. _End_ you. And I won't give you the courtesy of a gauntlet." Gwaine swallowed. Seylif was definitely not joking now and elder brothers, he had heard, were a force to be reckoned with and their scorn to be avoided. Seylif chuckled again and patted his shoulder.

"How old are you, anyway? You look like you just broke out of your nursery." Gwaine spluttered.

"I'm of age, all right? _Of age_!" He didn't add that he had come 'of age' just a month ago.*

"Are you, really," Seylif asked, cocking an eyebrow, "Still, young people need rules." He raised a finger and waved it in front of Gwaine's face annoyingly. Hand that feeds me, Gwaine reminded himself, and hand that might try and _end_ me. Not that it would succeed, obviously. Maybe.

"Now, listen up, this is the law. First off, you'll behave like a gentleman at all times. No meetings in secluded places or wandering the streets at night. You go out; you stay within the borough and have her back before dinner. I want to know where you are taking here, too, and I want to meet any friends of yours _before_ you introduce her to them. No touching and, for Heaven's sake, absolutely no snogging. No ballads below her window, my room is adjoining and I like my sleep. Unless, of course, you are a professional bard, but I know for a fact you aren't. No..."...

...Gwaine collided with something soft and tumbled to the ground. Bread-rolls and parcels skipped over the ground and scattered all around. He cursed quietly and looked up, only to find himself staring into her face. She must have entered the house when the cart had passed between them. Knocking her down was definitely not how he had intended to introduce himself.

"You're doing it again," the young woman said, fishing for a parcel on the ground.

"Uh?" Gwaine asked, his mind too stunned to come up with anything better.

"Gaping. It's kind of creepy, you know?" Dear Lord, she remembered him! Then he noticed 'creepy'.

"It's not!" Gwaine protested, "It's just that I was following you and then I lost you and I really didn't expect to run into you like this."

"Right," she said dryly, "so you were stalking me. My mistake, that's not creepy at all."

"That's not what I meant. I meant I was looking all over place for you for weeks and...bloody hell, I really do sound like a creepy stalker. Look, I'm not usually like that."

"No, I'm sure you're usually a very charming stalker," she said.

"Exactly," Gwaine agreed, then; "Man!" he corrected himself quickly, when he got past 'charming' and moved on to the 'stalker' still attached to it. "I mean man. I'm usually a very charming _man_. No, wait a second..." he added, "that's not right either. Now I sound like a complete git."

"Albeit a charming one, I assume," she said, laughing. Gwaine's heart skipped a beat and if he hadn't been sitting down already, he would have had to, now at the latest.

"This must be what people called being in love."

The young woman stopped laughing.

"Excuse me?" she asked. Gwaine realised that he had actually said that out loud. He made a noise that, to his ears at least, sounded like a strangled bunny rabbit and stared back at her, mortified.

"If there is anything, anything at all, that I can do at this point to look just a little less like a lunatic, please feel free to tell me any time," he said. She just shook her head slowly and continued looking at him as if he had lost his mind.

"Yes, that's what I figured. Excuse me, I need to go and...die of shame now, probably." He slowly rose to his feet.

"No, wait!" she said, her face flushed, "I don't really know how to respond to that. I mean, usually people don't, you know. Say things like that to me out of the blue. Not when they don't even know my name. Or I theirs."

"Yes, that's what they call sanity," Gwaine muttered, "I must have lost mine somewhere around here when we collided."

"Want me to help you find it? Sanity is a very hard thing to come by, after all." she said with a sheepish grin. He swallowed. There was no way he had any chance at regaining his sanity any time soon.

"Sure," he still said. Then he remembered that it was probably very bad manners to let her sit on the ground like that. He extended one hand and pulled her to her feet when she took it. She held on to it for a couple of moments, her cheeks red.

"Delyth," she said, pressing his hand.

"Huh?" he asked. Amazing, his eloquence today.

"My name, it's Delyth. For future reference. And I live here, so you don't have to, you know, follow me around." She gestured at the impressive town-house they were standing in front of.

"Oh, right. I'm Gwaine. Also known as Creepy Stalker Git, but that's just a nickname."

She laughed...

…He was walking down the street, his eyes searching the crowd and the faces passing him by for her face, as had become his subconscious habit ever since then. It was silly; really, he didn't even know whether she was from the city of just come on market day from one of the surrounding villages or maybe even from somewhere else entirely. He was a ridiculous fool and he should stop this instant. He forced himself to look at his feet, just in time to avoid setting his foot on a heap of dung by sidestepping in mid-motion. Good idea, that watching-where-you-go business. Yet, when he heard somebody laugh, his head snapped up and, how could it be any different, the next moment, he was holding his smarting nose. Face against cart is usually a very one-sided fight...

..."I'll be just a moment," the man with the oversized belly said and shot over to a booth selling all kinds of unappealing looking things. Gwaine sighed and drew his jacket tighter around him. Early March was not a pleasant time in this town, not at all. It was just cold and windy enough to be freezing and warm enough for all the snow to turn into disgusting brown slosh. He let his eyes wander over the sea of people before him. It was like all the peasants in the country had decided that today was the day they absolutely had to come up and clog the streets and make Gwaine's job as difficult as possible and Gwaine himself as miserable as any bloke with a cold and a dallying client ever could be. 'Just a moment', Gwaine thought, meant 'just a small eternity, I need to haggle about every item on the cart and buy none of them'. Sure enough, there he went again. 'Three silvers! You won't get a better price on a beautiful antique like this anywhere in the whole of Albion!' - 'One silver! Nobody would pay any more for such a piece of junk!'.

It was enough to make you want to quit this miserable business. Unfortunately, he didn't know how to do anything else. If only he had listened to his mother and learned his Latin, he might have found some work in a nice warm office at an acceptable wage. Or Geometry, that might come in handy with the Builder's Guild. Or – Gwaine's thoughts froze when he saw her. Standing in the middle of a group of young women, all of them giggling over the antics of the craftsmen a couple of booths over, she was looking at several patterns of fabric, one finger tapping her lower lip. She held two of them up – one a coppery brown, just like her skin, and one a soft green and shook her head, a frown forming on her face. A couple of black curls were pulling out of a thick braid, playing around her ears and neck in the breeze that also carried the light smell of fish and fresh bread from the river. One of her friends took her by the elbow and pointed in Gwaine's direction, saying something. She looked up and their eyes met. She smiled, inclined her head lightly and turned to her friends, who all broke out in giggles. Too late Gwaine realised that his mouth was open. He felt himself flush.

"I'm done here," his client snapped. Gwaine started up and followed him as he walked off, hoping they would go somewhere near the booth with the fabrics, but they went the opposite direction. Soon there were too many people between them to see her...

…"Dafi!" Eremes cried, "It's Dafi! But...I don't understand. You're my friend!" Gwaine pulled his charge away from the man who was bleeding out on the ground and handed him over to the middle-aged nurse that had accompanied them down into town. He had a feeling that his face mirrored the little boy's own horrified expression very accurately and he had a good mind to shout and cry just like he was. Unfortunately, he wasn't seven and he had a job to do. There might be other assassins lurking around. He checked one alley after the other, while Eremes kept crying in the background, then he took a good look at the roofs.

"Nobody...else there." Gwaine turned around and looked down at Dafi, who had propped himself up a little.

"Right, and I'm going to take your word for that, because...?" he asked harshly. Dafi chuckled, followed by a fit of coughs. The scar on his face rippled the skin around it as he grimaced.

"Because it's true." Gwaine snorted bitterly and checked the next roof-top with his eyes.

"Tell the little bugger to stop wailing. It hurts my head," Dafi muttered, looking at Eremes.

"Maybe you shouldn't have tried to kill him, then," Gwaine remarked. Finally he was convinced that there really were no more attackers hidden anywhere in close proximity and turned to his old friend – the man who was dying from the wound Gwaine had inflicted.

"I thought you said you weren't a crow," he said. His fingers were trembling, but he managed to keep it out of his voice for the most part.

"I wasn't. But you know how it is. The Director cracks his whip and tumblers roll."

"Is that why you got me the job? Because you thought it would be easy to get past me?" Gwaine hissed, feeling utterly betrayed. He had felt proud that Dafi would recommend him to fill his own shoes, had recognised Gwaine's ability to fend for himself.

"No..." Dafi muttered, "I recommended you because you were a good choice. But I did...get the curtain...because I knew you."

"Why?" Gwaine asked, telling himself that he needed to know as a bodyguard, but really trying to understand what had just happened, "Why is there a flock out on him?"

"Because his father wouldn't pay the hatters...of course," Dafi said, struggling to sit up a bit further. Gwaine couldn't help himself. The man had been like an older brother to him for two years. He knelt down and helped him.

"He tried to...run trade under the Director's...nose's warning." Dafi smiled, the scar stretching.

"Nice curtain, kiddo," he muttered, "Very nice curtain. I knew we'd make a...proper scarecrow of you yet."

"Shut up," Gwaine replied, feeling his eyes sting a little. He was definitely not going to sniff though.

"Bet you'll get that...contract prolonged now. Tomorrow, Candlemas, eh? 'N a bonus."

"I don't want a stupid bonus," Gwaine said. Eremes' wailing had ebbed to a quiet crying.

"Sure you want it," Dafi muttered, "don't be such a breeder. 'Tis the act, is all."

"It's not right," Gwaine said stubbornly. Dafi grinned his wolfish grin.

"Right's a madder of definition," he mumbled. His eyes fluttered and his head dropped to his chest, his long hair falling over his face, hiding the large nose, the thick brows and the scar. Gwaine drew a shaking hand over his eyes, which were just a little bit wet, and stood. He looked at Dafi's still form for a couple of moments then turned away.

Eremes was still weeping quietly. He was old enough to understand what had happened, though he might not be old enough to understand the details. Gwaine had grown quite a bit fond of the boy in the couple of months he had been his guard, but even as his conscience stung at the thought of leaving him at a time like this, Gwaine knew that tomorrow, he would refuse prolonging the contract. Just now, he had just killed a good friend. He wasn't going to have another close person's blood on his hands, should the Ring decide to leave the wings unclipped. If they wanted someone dead, they'd get them dead; Gwaine was only going to be collateral. Dafi would call this running away and him a breeder, but look what getting mixed up with the Ring had gotten him...

..."...and that stupid Eastlake girl! How dare she insult me like that! How dare he laugh at me!" Little Eremes waved his tiny sword around ineptly and Gwaine beat it aside without even looking.

"Feet," he said, "don't swing so wide, you'll give yourself away. And she didn't insult you; she beat you fair and square."

"Fair! It's not decent for a woman to fight in the first place! They're not cut out for it."

"Really," Gwaine said dryly, swatting aside another clumsy assault, "how did she beat you then?"

"She cheated! They're a dishonourable bunch, those Eastlakes, father says so."

"If he says so, of course it must be true," Gwaine muttered, and louder; "For all that is holy, watch your feet!"

"Footwork is for ninnies that can't swing right," little Eremes huffed and promptly stumbled. Gwaine bit back a remark on ninnies who couldn't walk right and waited until the boy had gotten back up.

"How come you fought her in the first place?" he asked when Eremes had resumed his position. The boy sniffed.

"She slapped me. I had to, on my honour."

"And why did she slap you?" Gwaine pressed further. Eremes flushed and looked at his feet, fumbling at the hilt of his blunt practice-sword.

"Well?" Gwaine asked.

"It was nothing! I just told her bastard lap-dog that he wasn't worth fighting with!"

"You called her friend a bastard lap-dog? Very honourable, that."

"Well, it's true, isn't it? In the first place, what kind of man lets a girl defend their honour for them! And she dared say that _I_ wasn't worth fighting with him and then she slapped me and challenged me to a duel!"

Gwaine chuckled. He hadn't met the 'lap-dog' in question, though he understood that he was a page in the household. The little Eastlake girl, on the other hand, he had seen before, a dark-haired waif with a temper and a sharp tongue to match it. It didn't surprise him at all that she would challenge his own charge to a fight to make a point.

"And then she cheated and he laughed at me! And then she said I had to apologise to him! _Apologise_! Because I just told the truth!"

"Maybe it was the lap-dog part they took issue with," Gwaine suggested, "It's not a very nice thing to say." Neither was, of course, calling someone a bastard to their face, but it was common enough and Gwaine knew to pick his fights wisely. Eremes frowned and looked a bit embarrassed.

"I didn't mean to, it just slipped out. Because he was going on and on about some stupid history-lesson they had instead of fighting like we were supposed to and she was listening to him like it was somehow amazing that he knew all the names and dates by heart. I know names and dates, too!"

Ah, so that was the real issue. Gwaine grinned. It had to smart to be beaten by the girl you wanted to impress, in front of the guy you perceived as a rival, no less.

"She was much nicer before she went away and brought him back. She never used to care for history, she said it was boring," Eremes mumbled and kicked a lump of dirt moodily, "Why isn't it boring when he talks about it?" Gwaine tried hard not to laugh. The romantic plights of seven-year-olds might seem a bit ridiculous to him, but to Eremes it was dead-serious.

"Well, I don't know about that," Gwaine said, "but you should apologise. It's really not very nice. Or honourable, for that matter. And it certainly won't gain you any favour with the lady."

"Who wants whose favour!" Eremes grumbled, but soon after he added; "It's not weak to apologise, right?"

"No," Gwaine said, "No, it takes a lot of courage."

"Oh. Good," Eremes said, "I'll think about it, then. Show me one of those moves the tumblers use!" Gwaine sighed. Sir Eremes was not going to be pleased if he were to teach his son what he called 'dirty street fighting'. However, the boy enjoyed it and he had discovered that Dafi had started on it long before he came along. Little Eremes seemed to know that he wasn't to use any of it under the eyes of his father or his proper tutors.

"Only if you promise me to seriously practice your foot-work for half an hour first," he finally decided. Eremes pursed his lips, sniffed and started on the first step-combination. He wasn't a bad kid, Gwaine thought as he watched him work through the exercises, even if his father was a first-class snob...

..."You don't look like very much," said Sir Eremes eyeing Gwaine from head to toe, one of his eyes magnified to double the normal size by his monocle. It made him look like it was going to pop out of his head any time soon and Gwaine suppressed a snort.

"How old are you?"

"Nineteen, Sire," Gwaine replied. The knight sighed deeply and turned to Dafi.

"Are you sure he can protect my son?"

"Oh, absolutely," the burly man replied, stony faced as ever, "He looks like he just crawled out of nappies, but he's got a fine swing and a sharp eye. All his cows have been very satisfied up until now, you have seen his references. Your son will be just as safe with him as he would be with me."

"I see. And there is absolutely nothing I can do to convince you to stay on?" Sir Eremes asked with a sigh. Dafi smiled lightly, causing the big scar that ran from one corner of his mouth to his eyebrow to ripple.

"I'm afraid not, Sire. I have duties of my own to attend to. Tumblers roll when the Director cracks the whip, as you know."

"You're a tumbler, too?" Sir Eremes asked, fixating Gwaine with his miss-matched eyes. The young man shook his head.

"No, Sire. I'm not from these parts at all," he said.

"So it would seem. Is that a light Mercian touch I hear?"

Gwaine nodded. He'd worked hard to blend, but it still shone through at times.

"Yes, Sire," he added when Sir Eremes looked displeased. For just a second he felt a twinge of resentment. Sir Eremes was a knight, just as his father had been, and unlike his father, it was the only title he had. He banished it, angry at himself. He had decided long ago that titles were worthless in any case and that he would go through the world on his strength alone.

"You know the town well enough? Know which are the dangerous corners and which are the safer ones? Who the people are you should keep an eye out for?"

"Yes, Sire. I've been here for well over two years now and Dafi has taught me a lot," Gwaine said.

"And you can train him? He has tutors, of course, but he needs to keep his practice up."

"I have experience with all sorts of combat, Sire," Gwaine replied.

"But do you understand the rules of knightly combat? I do not wish for my son to learn any...dirty...street tricks."

Gwaine narrowed his eyes. It would do the brat some good to learn a couple of 'dirty street tricks'. Honour was of little use to you when you were dead, or so he thought. He inclined his head nonetheless and muttered, "Of course, Sire."

"Dafi's protégée, huh? Very well." Sir Eremes folded his hands on his desk and looked at Gwaine. "It's two silver coins and a copper a fortnight, food and expenses while on duty will be seen to as long as the value does not exceed a copper a day. Your regular services will be required from Prime to Compline, with half a candle-mark break at Sext. Additional hours, if need be, will be remunerated accordingly. You are not to be late, if you are early without my say so, you will not be compensated for that time. Same goes for when you are late in returning from whatever outings you shall go on through your own dalliance. You are to keep a polite and respectful tone at all times, I do not wish for my son to learn inappropriate language. Should you have issues to lie before me, do so through my steward, I do not appreciate being bothered with minor concerns. Your payment along with one warm meal will be handed to you with the rest of the domestics between None and Vespers on every second Sunday, which is also to be your day off. Be tardy and you will receive nothing, my staff has better things to do than wait on you all day. Are these terms agreeable to you?" He looked like he was being exceedingly generous and Gwaine ground his teeth. He was young, he knew that, nobody would give him a better wage and if he managed to do a good job, Sir Eremes would be his best reference yet.

He was trying to stay as legal as it was possible. He didn't want to get mixed up with the Ring to deeply and any kind of crime had to be run past them. Though, of course, any kind of security work had to be channelled through the Ring as well. If he wanted to avoid his client being mugged, pick-pocketed or anything else unpleasant just out of spite, he would have to pay one tenth of his earnings to the hatters and another fifth to the town-guard so that they would look the other way for dealing with tumblers. Segoncaer pretty much ran on bribes, that was the first thing Dafi had taught him.

He quickly calculated in his head. The payment was not much more than a pittance and the hours wouldn't leave much time for any larger jobs on the side, if he wanted to, say, _sleep_, but it was enough to rent a room and buy all the necessities, even if he subtracted the bribes.

"They're agreeable, Sire," he finally said. Sir Eremes nodded.

"Of course they are. Your contract will run from Michaelmas tomorrow till Candlemas, at which time I will revise your performance. Should I be content and you willing to stay on, it will be prolonged as I see fit and your wages will be raised to three silvers a fortnight, as well as a bonus on all major holidays. If you wish to leave, you will receive a severance of two wages as well as a just letter of reference. Should I be displeased, you will be let go without reference or severance. Are you literate?"

"Excuse me?" Gwaine asked, taken aback by the question. "Sire," he added at a raised eyebrow.

"Do you know how to write, boy," Sir Eremes sighed. Gwaine nodded.

"Of course I do, Sire."

"Very well, then sign your name here," the knight said, pointing at a stack of paper. Gwaine took it and read through it carefully, taking his time. Sir Eremes tapped his fingers against his desk impatiently.

"It's just what I told you just now," he finally snarled, "don't waste my time."

"There's an additional clause that I'm not to engage in indecent conduct while in your services," Gwaine replied, "What am I to understand under that term?"

"Yes, yes. Do not gamble, do not break the law, do not associate with branded criminals or known outlaws, do not commit adultery or have extramarital relations, or engage in acts of perversion and deviance. Basically, you do nothing that will sully the good name of my family."

"I am allowed to speak to the opposite sex and have friends, though?" Gwaine said dryly.

Sir Eremes groaned. "As long as you do not do it while on duty. Now sign it or leave it, I will not indulge you any longer."

Gwaine bit back an impudent remark and signed.

"I hope you understand that if any harm shall come to my son on your watch while you are still alive, I will see to it that you don't remain so for much longer thereafter?" Sir Eremes asked when Gwaine had put down the quill. The threat didn't even faze Gwaine. Not that he wasn't convinced that it would be acted upon, should it come to that, it was just a usual working condition.

"Yes, Sire," he therefore replied.

"Wonderful. You are dismissed," Sir Eremes said, already looking at another stack of paper and waving his hand at Gwaine and Dafi. When they had closed the office door behind them and started down the dark corridor, Gwaine hissed angrily.

"Like I was some kind of bug," he complained.

Dafi chuckled. "That's just how they are, them noble types."

"Noble my arse, and good name, too, while we're at it. He was nothing but a bandit before Cenred took over," Gwaine muttered, "now he's all high and mighty."

"Actually, Sir Eremes was knighted under King Edmund II," Dafi said, "But bandits, nobles, all the same in the end. Come a new king, come a new order. Only thing that remains constant around here is the shadows, and don't you forget it, kiddo."

"It's not right," Gwaine said, not even bothering to ask who or what exactly those elusive 'shadows' were everybody kept hinting at but nobody would explain to an outsider like him.

"Right is a matter of definition," Dafi replied philosophically and that was the end of that conversation...

...Gwaine cursed and swiped his wet hair out of his face. It had grown quite long now. His mother had always urged him to cut it short, he had always insisted on keeping it long. Short hair made him look like a plucked chicken and girls didn't go for chicken! But tell that to his mother.

Of course now that he was in the middle of a rain-storm, fighting off three people at once in a narrow alley, he wished he had listened. His hair was getting in his eyes. Where had these buggers come from anyway? He was just walking down the street, minding his own business and they had jumped him.

"Well, well. Three on one scrawny kid, that's not fair now, is it?" a throaty voice said behind him. Gwaine was too busy avoiding having his head chopped off to argue, but he made a mental note to show this guy, whoever he was. A fist met his cheekbone and pain shot through his head. Next thing he knew, he was flying, and then he wasn't.

"Yes, yes, that's enough," the stranger said, "he's had quite enough now. Oi! I said enough!" A dark mountain grew above Gwaine, somebody gave a startled cry and something landed on his chest. He stared at it and bit back a scream of horror. It was a severed hand, still holding on to a double-edged knife. A loud howl filled the air. The mountain moved and a moment later, a man crash-landed next to Gwaine. He jumped to his feet, shouted a Busk curse and ran. More steps joined him. The howl, too, grew quieter and quieter, until it was finally completely drowned by the wind.

"Now, as for you," the mountain said. Gwaine swallowed and started creeping away. The mountain gave a bellowing sound and took of his hood. The face beneath was that of a man of indeterminate age, little lined, but hair and beard streaked with grey. He had a prominent nose and the bushiest eyebrows Gwaine had ever seen in his life. The man knelt down, kicking aside the severed hand.

"I'm not gonna do anything to you," he said, his lips stretching in a smile. Frankly, he looked hungry and Gwaine wondered whether the rumours were true and they ate people in Segoncaer.

"Still not convinced, eh? Well, can't blame you, you'd have to be a right breeder to be trusting random tumblers."

"You're a tumbler?" Gwaine asked, fascinated despite his nervousness. Because it wasn't fear or anything.

"As were they, it happens. Just a bit of a different act," said the man. "Name's Dafi. And you, kiddo?"

"I'm not a kid!" Gwaine sniffed. He wasn't. He was soon seventeen. Definitely not a kid any more. The guy – Dafi – chuckled.

"To me, you're a kid and you'll stay one until you can get rid of that stuff behind your ears."

"What? What stuff?" Gwaine asked, fingering his ears.

"The green stuff," Dafi said. Gwaine dropped his hands and shot him a glance. Though it might probably have been more impressive if he hadn't looked like a wet rat, which he very much suspected he did, and Dafi less like a mountain troll.

"Funny," he muttered grimly.

"I thought so," Dafi said with a smile, "Now, what's your name?"

"What is it to you?" Gwaine asked stiffly.

"Because, I was going to invite you for a meal, since yours is...not fit for consumption any more, and I don't eat outside the bottle," the man said, pointing at Gwaine's squashed groceries on the ground. Gwaine recoiled a bit more. He'd heard about men that thought they could get their way with bo... young _men_ like him. He wasn't going to fall for any of that stuff. Dafi laughed again. It sounded like stones rumbling down a ravine. However, all the while he was throwing Gwaine a very strange look.

"Really, if I wanted to do anything to you, you'd be knotted already. Why bother tricking if I could just do whatever I please with you now? I'm asking you to go to a public place, instead of staying in a dark, lonely street alone with a stranger twice your size." Now that he put it like that...Gwaine threw a nervous look to his sides. The street was indeed dark and very lonely. And it was raining cats and dogs, to boot. Inwardly, Gwaine was torn between chiding himself a ninny and a coward, and knowing that he was acting more or less responsibly under the circumstances. Was it better to stay alive and act like a little scared girl, or act according to his pride and possibly end up dead?

"I can scream," he said, his inner little girl and his mother winning the fight, "very loud if you try something."

"I'm sure you can," Dafi said, stones once more rumbling in his throat.

"And I can fight," added Gwaine's pride.

"I know you can," said the man and offered Gwaine his hand to pull him up. The little girl in him didn't take it and preferred scrambling up on her own. But she did follow Dafi down the street until they reached a house with well-lit windows. Gwaine could hear music, voices and laughter from within.

"Want to look inside first to make sure that there's not a hoard of child-molesters waiting to ravish you in there?" Dafi asked, regarding him once more with a curious look. It was almost as if he was – testing him? Gwaine sniffed.

"I'm not afraid of child-molesters. I'm not a child. But you might plan to rob me or something," he said. The little girl and his mother once again banded together and overwhelmed his pride. He took a peek through one of the windows. There was a mixed crowd of men and women, all ages, all kinds of dress. Certainly nobody would plan such an elaborate trap for the five extensively clipped copper coins he had in his purse.

"It's fine," he muttered. Dafi grinned, and in the light of the windows, Gwaine saw a long ugly scar rippling on his cheek.

"Porphy," the large man said, pushing open the door and making a gesture to usher Gwaine in. Before they had even settled down at a table in the corner, he had already greeted what felt like half the customers and definitely all of the staff.

"Now, is it milk for you? Water?" Dafi asked, having ordered grog for himself.

"Ale," Gwaine snapped. "Light," his inner little girl added. The waitress, a quiet young girl his own age smiled at him and he smiled back.

"And one big plate with whatever you served today," Dafi added.

"Two. Different ones," Gwaine muttered. Damn it, he was being such an insufferable sissy today.

"Yes, you're perfect," Dafi muttered under his breath and, turning to the waitress; "Two different ones, then." The girl looked a bit stunned but nodded.

"Now, will you tell me your name, kiddo?" Gwaine's companion asked when she had shuffled away. Gwaine frowned and nodded.

"It's Gwaine," he said. It was just his name, after all.

"Gooda Woodpecker, Gwaine," said Dafi. Gwaine stared at him.

"Excuse me?"

"Gooda Woodpecker. It's a Busk greeting for when you meet someone for the first time. You're supposed to say 'drum a tree'. It's all about wishing each other luck."

"It sounds ridiculous," Gwaine scoffed. Dafi chuckled.

"Maybe, but you might want to bottle the tricking if you want to live in this part of town. So close to the inner wall, most people here are somehow involved with the Ring. You might just as well get naked in the market square and shout 'come and rob me' if you keep talking posh."

"I'm not talking posh!" Gwaine protested, feeling that it had definitely not been a compliment.

"Posh is what the tumblers say posh is, which is all that is not Busk," Dafi said with a grin, "and since you're not busking, you're posh."

Gwaine harrumphed.

"Well then, Gwaine, how much rabies do you owe the hatters?" Dafi asked when their drinks had been deposited in front of them.

"How much what do I owe the what?" Gwaine asked. Dafi raised an eyebrow.

"Lhooka's Dice, what, did you just buy a ticket for the show?"

"What?" Gwaine asked, slowly growing desperate. He knew the words, but they didn't make any sense at all the way Dafi strung them together. Dafi laughed.

"Obviously you did. Just arrive in town, that is. Rabies are bribes, kiddo, and hatters are the ones that collect them for the Director. The lee- the blokes that jumped you were hatters."

"How do you know?"

"Why, because of their hats, obviously. They all wear those red cylindrical caps. Anybody who wants to run a business down here has to pay one fifth of their wages to them, if they want to avoid being targeted on purpose. A tenth if they want to carry weapons, in case of collaterals."

"But I don't run a business! And I don't carry a weapon." This was true. His father's sword had been stolen the day he arrived, his dagger two days later. He didn't have the money to buy anything new. Dafi raised an eyebrow.

"Then it must be because your boss didn't pay up, a message. Dead people don't pay rabies, after all, much better to go for the hatchlings. Who do you work for?" Their food arrived and Gwaine put off answering until he had taken a couple of bites. For something that looked like it shouldn't be served to humans, it tasted surprisingly well. He swallowed and replied;

"Liam. He's an-"

"Ironmonger, yes, I know him. He lost four boys already, never learns...I'll have to talk to the top-act about that, it's time they got a bit more personal," Dafi muttered, looking grim, "Won't be no kids left in town if we keep culling his hatchlings." He looked up, scratching his scar.

"Have you ever killed someone?" Dafi wanted to know. Gwaine felt his jaw tighten.

"Once," he muttered, "It was...an accident. I wasn't going for..." he fell quiet. It hadn't even been that long ago, just six months, but it seemed like he had been a completely different person before that.

"Could you do it again?"

Gwaine's head shot up. What kind of a question was that? But apparently the expression on his face told Dafi all he needed to know, because the large man bared his teeth again.

"Well then. Would you like to switch acts? You've got all the right makings and what you don't have, experience and I will teach you," he said. Gwaine blinked.

"Sorry?"

"I'm looking for a junior associate. Somebody who can keep their eyes where I can't have mine." Dafi tapped the back of his head. "And from what I have seen, you're perfect. "

"You're offering me a _job_?" Gwaine asked incredulously. He'd done nothing but let his inner little girl out all evening, what kind of job requirements did that meet?

"Just that, kiddo. You're very cautious, you don't trust people and you might be a bit rough around the edges with all your posh, but you held your own for full five minutes against those hatters before I stepped in. Without a weapon, too. It's quite impressive. Just what I need." Well, that might of course be another way to put it. Cautious, not cowardly. Sounded good enough. And to be honest, pretty much any kind of job was better than what he was doing now. He was just about to say yes, when he remembered Dafi's question about killing and how he had chopped off another man's hand and kicked it aside as if it were nothing.

"What do you do?" he asked dubiously, "I'm not...I won't kill for hire." Dafi rumbled his throaty laugh again.

"Neither do I, technically. I prevent people from being killed for hire and more often than not, there are casualties."

"You're a personal guard?"

"Yes. Around here, we call it a Scarecrow. Now, what do you say, kiddo? Want to try your hand at it?"...

...Gwaine was sitting in the dust at the roadside, watching a fly slowly buzz around the dead youth on the ground. He was about Gwaine's own age. Had been, Gwaine corrected himself. He was dead now. Dead. He had killed him. He hadn't even meant to. The bandit had jumped out from the undergrowth as Gwaine was riding past. His horse had reared and thrown him off. Panicking, he had scrambled to his feet and found himself face to face with the boy, swinging a sword much too heavy for him in a manner that was a danger to both of them. They had exchanged blows and Gwaine had known immediately that he was much better. However, he had never fought that inept an opponent before and a blow that another would have evaded with ease had slit this youth's gut from bottom to top.

It stank. Gwaine had never known how much a disembowelled human being stank. But despite the horrible odour in his nose, he couldn't bring himself to stand up and walk on like nothing had happened. Something had happened. He had just killed a person. If he kept telling himself that, maybe he would actually believe it at some point. Before that, he wasn't going anywhere...

...He took one last look at the house he had grown up in. He felt a bit excited and a bit sad and a lot normal. He was leaving home, there should be fanfares or drums or bells or something, but there was just the quiet nigh air and a couple of cicadas chirping in the high grass. It felt wrong to do something so monumental on such a normal night, but there was nothing left for him to do here. Mother had died two months ago already. It hadn't been unexpected, she had been sick for such a long time that when she finally passed Gwaine found that he had already done most of his grieving. It had been more like the last glimpse one saw of a traveller before he turned around the corner. All the goodbyes had already been said and all the tears shed in beforehand. All that remained to be done was to turn around and go back home. Except, of course, that it was Gwaine who was leaving, going somewhere. Where, he really didn't know. He didn't have much of a plan. Make his way, somehow, with his own strength. Make a place of his own. He was confident that he could do it. He had to, because he had sold whatever the debt collectors didn't take to pay for a horse and some other necessities. The only things he had kept were his father's sword and a dagger he had gotten for his ninth birthday. He tugged at the reigns and steered his mount towards the long road ahead of him...

...He was thirteen, watching his mother talk quietly to the bloke dressed in expensive robes. He was looking at his father's library. A Baron somewhere across the country wanted to buy the entire collection, all that remained to be done was appraise it and agree to a final price. Gwaine was supposed to be studying downstairs, but he really didn't see the point. The books would be gone in a couple of weeks anyway, and neither Latin nor Geometry were going to pay for anything. His mother stood and walked over to the door. Gwaine retreated, watching out for the creaking floorboard that always gave him away when he sneaked down into the kitchen at night to get a snack and tiptoed down the corridor...

...He was ten, his mother crying as the tall man talked at her. He was saying that father's soul was now with him, in a better place. Gwaine narrowed his eyes at him. The twat had no idea. Father had always said that home was the best place to be and that was where Gwaine wanted him to be, soul and the whole rest of him. He said so and his mother started crying even harder. He hugged her, not entirely sure what he had said that made her so sad...

...He was seven, watching his father direct the men carrying crates, bellowing commands. Things had been so hasty these past couple of days and everywhere Gwaine went, people snarled at him to take himself out of the way. Even father looked different, somehow distant and cold in his armour. The first carts rattled off through the gate, a stable-boy readied his father's big horse. Gwaine abandoned his place by the window and ran outside. Father was surely not going to leave without saying goodbye? He skipped the last step of the stairs and felt himself being caught and swept into the air.

"Now, you be a good boy and don't give your mother any grief," his father said, his beard tickling Gwaine's neck, making him giggle.

"I'm always a good boy," he said. His father raised his eyebrows. "Well, not always, but most times," Gwaine admitted. Father gave him a tight hug and Gwaine hugged back for all that he was worth.

"When will you be back?" he asked. His father didn't reply for a very long time.

"When the war is over," he finally said, "but I'm always thinking of home, in here." He tapped his head.

"It's the best place to be."...

...Gwaine was five, swinging his first practice sword, his father swatting it away, laughing. It was a bit infuriating, how he kept evading Gwaine. He made a big leap, stumbled and was caught before he could hit the ground...

...Three, it was evening, they had just finished dinner. Father was telling him a story about knights and dragons. His mother was sitting opposite them, smiling lightly while doing some needlework...

…Two, he was tugging at the fur of a big dog. Because it was so fluffy. The dog turned its head lazily and looked at Gwaine. A twitch went over its entire coat and Gwaine laughed.

...One, he was warm and safe...

...and then he was nothing and everything all at once, images of things he had never seen and would never see flashing before his consciousness. Something stirred, swirled, a current sucking him in. Something horrible. Gwaine wanted to scream, but he had no mouth, wanted to recoil, but he had no body. He was gone, dissolved in a stream, or maybe he had never been in the first place? Becoming part of it, more and more, slowly seeping into it...

/~/

Gwaine's knees exploded with pain. He frantically sucked in air, swallowed it by accident, and started coughing, retching and gasping. His hands were holding on to something soft and wet, he was kneeling on something cold and hard. He blinked, tears rolling down his face, stone and a white-clad figure coming into focus for an instant and blurring immediately. He blinked again.

He was back to being himself, Sir Gwaine, Knight to Camelot, though at the same time he felt all the different people he had been at some point clearer than he had ever before. Some part of him was still not completely there, drifting through that torrent he had seen last. But for the most part, he was himself. And as he knew who he was, he remembered where he was and what was happening. He was kneeling on the stairs, the weight in his arms was Wynn, still unconscious, and above him was...

His head snapped up and his glance fell on the little girl in the white silk dress. She was hopping up and down, giggling and clapping her hands excitedly.

"Oh, this is brilliant!" she exclaimed, "You are such quality work, you'll do wonderfully in my collection, both of you! Brilliant! I love it! I love it! And it's not even my birthday! But we shall have a party to celebrate, a not-birthday-party, we shall call it!" She stopped hopping, picked up her skirts, and with one flowing movement sank into a perfectly executed curtsy.

"Welcome to my home. My name is Aileas, how do you do?"

/~/~/

*BTW, I'm going with Twenty-One being 'of age', as I seem to remember that it was the age Arthur should have been 'twenty years' after the great purge in the first series when they had the ceremony.

_I'm working on the next chapter, I really am. But I keep running into blocks. I've got the entire thing planned out in my head, but somehow I just can't seem to string the scenes together neatly and make them flow. I've deleted so many drafts, I've lost count. Though recently, it seems to be going better. Only now I've got a couple of very long term-papers to finish by the end of September, so I can't write as much as I'd like._

_On that note, I still hope to have a new chapter finished by that time at the latest. Otherwise, it's just too ridiculous._

_Please bear with me and keep reading. The comments I get really make my day._

_Cheerio,_

_C._


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